I 


PAN'S 
MOUNTAIN 


BY 

AM  E  LI  E     RIVES 

(PRIMNESS  TROUBETZKOY) 


'  The  blood,  the  blood  that  flows  through  the  veins  of  men 

As  rivers  through  meadows  flow, 
The  blood  was  jealous  of  all  the  birds'  sweet  songs, 

And  said,  '  How  I  shall  sing!' 

The  blood  was  jealous  of  all  the  wild  winds'  songs, 
And  said,  'How  I  shall  sing!'" 

—From  The  Bard  of  The  Dimbovitza 


HARPER  ^BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

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M  C  M  X 


PS 

3  6 


BOOKS  BY 
AM  E  LI E     R IVE  S 

(PRINCESS  TROUBETZKOY) 

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Copyright,  1910,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


Published  September,  1910. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MY   MOTHER 
WITH  ABIDING   LOVE  AND  GRATITUDE 


Upon  an  evening  in  the  month  of  May, 
When  from  the  heavens  like  a  burning  tear 

The  sun  dropped  down, 
Then  did  the  blood  awaken  in  the  veins 
Of  the  young  maiden  wandering  through  the  -fields. 
Then  the  blood  cried  to  her, 
And  the  blood  burned  in  her, 
And,  as  it  burned  within  her,  thus  it  spake: 
"What  art  thou  making,  maiden,  of  thy  youth? 

What  wilt  thou  make  of  me? 
I  tire  of  this  light  tripping  to  and  fro, 
This  idle  running  through  thy  strong  young  frame, 
Now,  would  I  fain  stand  still  and  do  my  work; 
And  mark,  when  thou  shall  see 
This  work  of  thine  own  flesh,  thy  blood  renewed, 
Then  shalt  thou  thank  the  blood  that  gave  thee  this.'" 
So  the  blood  burned  within  her, 
And  thus  it  cried  to  her. 
And  there  beside  the  maize-field, 
The  other  one  was  waiting, 
He — the  mysterious  one. 

In  the  month  of  May,  at  even, 
The  sun  drops  down  from  heaven 
Heavily,  like  a  tear. 

—From  "The  Bard  of  The  Dimbovitza." 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 


CHAPTER   I 

OCARRED,  stained,  with  that  look  of  blended 
O  gloom  and  gayety  that  one  sees  sometimes 
in  the  faces  of  the  aged  who  have  lived  roundly, 
the  old  house,  leaning  backward  a  little  among 
its  supporting  rocks,  stared  down  upon  the  valley 
and  the  shining  lake. 

The  corrugated  line  of  its  tiled  eaves  lent  it 
a  certain  air  of  petulance,  as  of  one  frowning 
against  the  sun,  and  from  beneath  peered  its 
small,  deep-socketed  eye-windows.  It  was  a 
house  with  a  personality,  with  a  character,  with 
an  expression  of  its  own.  And  its  charm  was 
that  of  the  irregular  beauty  who  has  kept  the 
magic  of  sex  against  time  and  against  disease. 

The  winds  and  rains  that  had  helped  to  crumble 
it  had  woven  also  a  dim  veil  of  lovely  hues  across 
its  peeling  stucco.  Birds  quickened  its  curtains 
of  thick  vines,  and  bees  filled  its  blossoming 
coigns  and  hollows  with  their  low  bourdonment 
till  one  thought  of  a  great  shell  stranded  upon  the 


mountains  and  still  full  of  the  far-off  humming  of 
the  sea. 

At  its  back  the  village  curs  barked  and  the 
village  children  shouted,  and  the  dull  "toe  toe" 
of  the  wooden  balls  in  games  of  boccie  could  be 
heard  on  festas  and  Sundays.  But  in  front  and 
on  both  sides  its  own  queer  gardens  rambled  and 
sprawled  and  fell  sheer  to  the  white  road,  upon 
which  one  looked  out  through  an  old,  old  iron 
gate,  which  was  always  locked,  upon  which  one 
thumped  for  admittance  with  an  iron  knocker 
even  more  ancient,  and  of  which  Cecca  carried 
the  key  in  her  petticoat  of  dark-green  fustian. 

Once  through  this  gate,  with  the  sharp  pebbles 
of  the  ascent  scattering  back  beneath  one's  tread, 
the  witchcraft  of  the  place  was  upon  one.  The 
"aura,"  the  "ambiente,"  of  the  old  house,  dom 
inant  and  feminine,  soaked  through  and  through 
with  the  personalities  of  those  who  had  been 
born  and  who  had  died  there,  this  "orrenda," 
as  the  Iroquois  would  say,  closed  in  about 
one,  palpable  to  the  finer  senses,  a  thing  that 
touched  one  as  music,  as  the  gathering  of  a  storm 
touches  one.  One,  as  it  were,  came  "in  touch" 
with  the  brooding  house,  and  felt  that  eerie  sense 
of  unreasoning  expectation  of  things  about  to 
happen. 

This  first  slope  of  the  garden  was  very  dark 
and  dank,  and  smelled  always  like  autumn  woods 
after  rain.  The  strangest  mingling  of  palms 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

and  old  tree-box  tented  out  the  passionate  blue 
of  the  sky ;  gnarled  cherry-trees,  wrapped  in  vine- 
cloaks,  bent  glumly  toward  the  fat,  black  soil; 
raspberry  bushes  struggled  with  agave  plants; 
rank,  graveyard-looking  grass  lay  in  matted 
tresses  along  the  walks. 

Then  suddenly  one  turned,  and  there  was  the 
house,  in  full  sunlight,  high  on  its  walled  terrace, 
and  the  view  of  sky  and  lake  bursting  upon  one 
in  a  silent  explosion  of  blue  and  silver  fire. 

This  was  Dione's  home.  Here  she  had  been 
born,  and  here  she  had  lived  for  eighteen  years, 
summer  and  winter,  with  Cecca,  her  mother's  old 
nurse,  as  chief  companion.  Her  father,  who  had 
died  when  she  was  fourteen,  although  he  had 
loved  her  well,  had  been  to  her  more  an  oracle 
than  a  companion.  She  had  thought  him  mys 
terious,  in  the  deeper,  more  awful  sense  of  the 
word,  and  she  had  never  sought  to  pierce  this 
mysteriousness.  This  was  intimately  character 
istic  of  Dione.  From  him  she  had  her  smattering 
of  Greek  and  Latin,  her  average  knowledge  of 
the  old  Italian  poets,  her  more  than  average 
knowledge  of  mythology.  It  was  her  father  who 
had  named  her  "Dione."  To  her  mother,  exas 
perated  and  outraged,  who,  as  a  meticulous 
Roman  Catholic,  had  desired  to  name  her  in 
honor  of  Santa  Cecilia,  he  had  explained  that 
Dione  was  the  daughter  of  ^Ether  and  Ge  —  of 
Earth  and  Sky. 

3 


-PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"As  you  know,"  said  he,  "I  have  no  wish  that 
my  child  should  be  a  daughter  of  the  Church.  I 
was  baptized  into  that  Church  without  my  con 
sent.  She  will  be  baptized  into  it  without  her 
consent,  according  to  the  promise  that  I  made 
you.  But  as  she  grows  older  she  shall  choose 
her  faith  or  unfaith  for  herself.  She  shall  be 
quite  free.  If  she  grows  into  a  true  child  of 
earth  and  sky,  that  is  all  that  I  can  wish  for  her. 
I  am  sorry  to  annoy  you,  but  a  pinch  of  truth  in 
the  beginning  is  better  than  a  fistful  in  the  end." 

' '  I  should  be  thankful  that  you  did  not  choose 
to  call  her  'Ghe,' "  retorted  Madame  Rupin,  with 
explicable  spite,  "as  in  that  case  people  would 
think  that  you  had  named  her  from  a  verb  in  the 
dialect.  As  it  is,  the  poor  little  thing  will  have 
no  festa,  no  name-day— 

' '  She  can  have  her  birthday,  after  the  English 
custom.  As  for  'Dione/  you  will  admit  that  it  is 
a  pretty  name,  at  least." 

"It  is  pagan  and  heathen  ..." 

"I  am  pagan  and  heathen  ..." 

"E  vero!  .  .  .  &  vero!"  cried  his  wife;  and  as 
his  tall  figure  composedly  passed  through  the 
door  she  "threw  it  after  him"  with  both  tiny 
hands,  and  said,  in  dialect,  "May  the  devil  eat 
you!"  For  Madame  Rupin  was  not  as  refined  in 
her  language  and  emotions  as  in  her  appearance. 

Her  husband  was  a  Servian,  she  an  Italian,  the 
daughter  of  a  well-to-do  Intrese  wine-merchant, 

4 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

and,  on  the  distaff  side,  the  descendant  of  an  old 
family  of  the  lesser  gentry  near  Canobbio.  She 
had  been  a  beauty  in  her  youth,  and  was  still  a 
very  pretty  woman  of  forty,  blond,  small,  with 
charming  pointed  hands  and  feet,  and  the  neatly 
finished,  glistening,  slightly  malicious  eyes  of  a 
Ouisteetee.  It  was  strange  how,  from  this 
fragile,  delicately  tinted  body,  there  emanated  a 
vibrant  sensuality  as  pungent,  as  personal  as  the 
odor  of  some  frail  yet  fleshly  orchids.  It  was 
stifling  or  exhilarating  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  person  that  it  affected.  Her  husband  seemed 
to  have  withdrawn  and  closed  in  upon  himself 
under  its  influence.  He  made  the  impression 
upon  people  of  a  cold,  still  man,  whose  decided 
opinions,  felt  to  be  adverse,  were  never  uttered. 
"Non  e  simpatico"  was  the  general  verdict,  fol 
lowed  usually  by  a  shrug  and  "That  poor,  charm 
ing  little  woman!" 

Upon  Dione,  from  her  babyhood,  Madame  Ru- 
pin  seemed  to  have  much  the  same  effect  that 
she  had  upon  Rupin  himself.  Not  that  the  child 
showed  any  aversion  to  her  mother;  but  she 
seemed  to  regard  her  with  a  certain  aloofness,  as 
one  apart  from  herself,  standing  quietly  near  her 
when  called,  and  regarding  her  with  serious,  fixed 
eyes,  as  though  asking,  ' '  Who  are  you  ?  Are  you 
really  my  mother?"  This  unconscious  attitude 
of  Dione 's  produced  at  last  in  her  mother 
a  sense  of  injured  and  irritated  repulsion. 

5 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"She  is  all  her  father's!  She  is  he,  himself, 
over  again!"  she  would  cry.  "I  have  no  part  in 
her.  When  she  stares  at  me  like  that  I  feel  as 
though  she  were  putting  the  evil  eye  upon  me!" 

And  when  Cecca  scolded  her  soundly  for  such 
a  wicked  judgment  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood, 
she  would  only  shriek,  nervously,  "Stregascia! 
(Bad  old  witch !)  I  tell  you  there's  not  a  shred  of 
my  flesh  nor  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  her!  She'll 
grow  up  to  do  me  an  evil!  .  .  .  You  will  see." 

But  later,  when  the  child  began  to  develop  a 
certain  different  beauty  of  her  own,  with  her 
deep-set  Slav  eyes  looking  out  from  thick  flame- 
lets  of  crisp  black  hair,  and  her  little  fluted 
mouth,  red  as  the  fruit  of  cherry-laurels  breaking 
the  clear  amber  of  her  face,  then  it  was  "Tesoro 
mio,"  and  "Stella,"  and  "Gioia."  And  frocks 
of  lace  were  bought,  and  rosy  sashes,  and  little 
shoes  of  bronze  and  gold.  But  this  phase  ended 
one  day  in  disaster,  when  Cecca  showed  the  out 
raged  mother  the  lace  frock  torn  to  strips  and 
the  small  shoes  soggy  with  the  water  of  the 
mountain  pool,  in  which  Dione  had  set  them 
floating  for  boats. 

"I  do  not  like  them,"  was  all  that  she  would 
say  by  way  of  explanation.  "I  like  good  linen, 
like  Cecca's,  that  won't  tear,  and  can  be  washed 
and  dried  on  the  grass.  And  I  like  to  feel  the 
earth  under  my  toes.  It  likes  to  feel  me,  and  I 
like  to  feel  it." 

6 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Thus  the  child  grew  up  in  the  centre  of  a  tri 
angle  formed  by  her  captious,  capricious  mother, 
her  silent  father,  and  her  old,  very  wise,  very 
foolish  nurse. 

She  knew  a  little  of  a  good  many  things,  but  of 
nothing  very  much  save  the  mythology  of  Greece 
and  Rome.  Her  father,  among  other  things,  had 
taught  her  to  speak  French.  As  for  the  varied 
bits  of  learning  upon  which  he  fed  her,  "Never 
be  afraid  of  having  a  smattering  of  things,"  he 
had  said  to  her  one  day.  "To  have  even  pin- 
holes  to  look  through  is  better  than  being  shut 
behind  a  blank  wall." 

Dione  never  forgot  this.  She  read  or  skimmed 
whatever  came  to  her  hand,  but  from  first  to  last 
what  most  appealed  to  her  was  the  idea  of  the 
bright,  fierce,  ruthless  gods  that  had  peopled 
earth  and  air  for  men  of  old. 


CHAPTER   II 

IT  was  one  of  those  violent  blue-hot  days 
that  come  in  June  to  Lago  Maggiore.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  air  would  crackle  with 
electricity  did  one  sweep  a  hand  through  it,  but 
no  wind  moved  on  the  water.  The  tramontana 
had  gasped  itself  away  before  midday,  and  the 
inverna  was  still  dozing. 

Behind  the  Sasso  di  Ferro  huge  cirrus  clouds 
were  creaming  up.  Dione,  at  full  length  on  her 
back  among  the  tangled  grass  and  little,  burning 
jewels  of  the  wild  flowers,  could  make  out  a  vast 
form  of  Juno  in  her  chariot,  with  a  milk-white 
peacock  trailing  its  silvered  tail  along  the  blue. 

"If  Juno  melts  first,  I  will  go  and  talk  with 
Cecca.  If  the  peacock  melts  first,  I  will  .  .  . 
What  shall  I  do,  Masciett  ?" 

Masciett,  her  big  white  dog,  a  cross  between 
the  pure  Esquimau  sledge-dog  and  the  short- 
haired  Siberian  "laika,"  the  last  gift  of  her  father, 
heaved  himself  upon  one  haunch,  and,  fixing  his 
kingly  eyes  of  amber-hazel  upon  hers,  let  fall  a 
majestic  paw  upon  her  breast.  Then  he  drooped 
his  head  upon  it  and  breathed  forth  a  gentle  sigh. 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Sentimentale!"  said  Dione,  and  tapped  his 
nose.  He  looked  wounded,  sent  a  flash  of  tongue 
across  the  place  that  her  fingers  had  stung,  and 
withdrew  his  head. 

Juno  dissolved  first,  losing  her  tiara  and  one  arm. 

"Ecco!  ...  So  it's  Cecca!     Come,  Masciett." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  one  supple  move 
ment  that  would  have  brought  her  praise  in  a 
gymnasium,  and  went,  with  her  long,  free  gait, 
toward  the  house,  Masciett,  like  the  white  wolf 
of  a  fairy-tale,  loping  beside  her. 

As  she  passed  through  the  crooked  old  hall 
toward  Cecca 's  kingdom  the  voices  of  her  mother 
and  some  guests  came  to  her  from  the  salottino. 

"Eh,  car  a  mia,"  a  woman  was  saying,  "to  hide 
her  moros  (lover)  under  an  altar,  and  that  altar 
built  over  a  bath  -  tub !  What  do  you  say  to 
that?  ..." 

Dione's  high  little  nose  wrinkled  up  precisely 
as  Masciett 's  did  when  he  sniffed  the  loathed 
aroma  of  a  cat. 

"That  is  all  they  talk  of  or  think  of  morning, 
noon,  and  night!  .  .  .  They  make  me  schivi 
(sick),  the  whole  lot  of  them!  .  .  .  B-r-r-r  ..." 

And  she  scudded  like  a  deer  to  be  out  of  the 
sound  of  the  unctuous  and  slanderous  voices. 

The  house  of  Vareggio  had  been  once  called 
The  House  of  the  Weasel-man,  because  of  its 
curious  and  winding  under  -  passages  and  little 
chambers.  Now  it  was  usually  spoken  of  as 

9 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

The  House  of  the  Weasel.  Through  these 
chill,  dark  labyrinths  Dione  had  to  make  her 
way,  in  order  to  reach  Cecca's  bedroom.  A 
little  shiver  ran  over  her  as  the  dank  fungus- 
scented  air  struck  her  glowing  young  body,  and 
she  ran  faster  than  ever  up  the  queer  little  stone 
staircase  that  brought  her  to  her  nurse's  door. 
There  she  stopped  short,  arrested  by  a  shaft  of 
sunlight  that,  darting  through  a  window  over 
head,  struck  across  some  freshly  painted  words 
above  the  lintel. 

' '  Ito,  alo  Massa  Dandi  Bandi  III.  I.R.N.R.I. , ' ' 
read  the  young  girl  under  her  breath.  "What 
new  witchcraft  is  Cecca  after  now?" 

She  set  the  blackened  old  door  wide  with  one 
fling  of  her  arm. 

"Salute,  strega  bianca"  (Hail,  white  witch), 
said  she. 

Cecca  was  an  imposing  and  beautiful  old 
woman.  She  looked  up  calmly  with  broad  hazel 
eyes,  and  replied: 

"It  is  not  a  good  thing  to  call  any  'witch,' 
whether  white,  black,  or  gray." 

With  that  she  "made  horns,"  the  sign  against 
evil,  with  both  hands,  and  then  resumed  com 
posedly  her  task  of  sorting  the  dried  herbs  which 
lay  in  little  bundles  on  the  narrow  oak  table 
before  her. 

"Pardon,"  said  Dione.  "I  thought  a  'white 
witch'  meant  a  good  person." 

IO 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

' '  No  witch  is  good.  Some  persons  have  power 
against  evil,  but  that  is  not  to  be  a  witch.  When 
things  are  bolic  I  throw  good  against  them.  I 
have  that  power.  But  that  is  not  to  be  a  witch." 

Dione  came  and  sat  beside  the  table.  She  put 
an  elbow  between  two  bundles  of  herbs,  and  took 
her  chin  upon  her  palm. 

"Do  not  be  offended,"  said  she.  "I  did  not 
know.  I  will  never  say  so  again.  When  you 
say  'bolic'  I  suppose  you  mean  'diabolic'?" 

"I  mean  exactly  what  I  say,"  replied  Cecca, 
firmly.  "No  more,  no  less." 

"I  see,"  said  Dione.  "Those  herbs  smell  very 
good." 

"Some  are  good  and  some  are  evil.  You  can 
no  more  judge  herbs  by  their  smell  than  men  by 
their  words." 

"I  see,"  said  Dione  again. 

"The  evil  herbs,"  volunteered  Cecca  after  a 
pause,  "are  to  fight  evil  with — as  when  one  says 
'Fight  the  devil  with  fire.'  The  good  herbs  are 
also  to  be  used  against  evil,  but  then,  also,  they 
can  be  used  for  good  alone." 

"It  is  very  interesting,  truly,"  said  Dione. 
"Tell  me  some  more  about  them.  What  is  that 
one  for  that  you  have  in  your  hand?" 

"Eh,  Gioia,  this  is  a  very  remarkable  herb, 
and  a  truly  beneficent  one.  It  is  called  'Con- 
cordia.'  I  can  tell  you  a  strange  and  true  story 
about  this  herb." 

ii 


A  light  came  into  her  vivid  eyes,  and  a  smile, 
tranquil  and  pleasant  to  see,  stirred  her  lips. 

' '  Tell  it,  Cecca  mine.  You  know  how  it  pleases 
me  to  hear  your  stories." 

"Tesoro  mio,"  said  Cecca,  standing  erect,  and 
spreading  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand  toward 
Dione  in  a  fine  gesture,  "this  is  a  true  tale." 

"I  listen,"  said  Dione. 

Then  Cecca,  with  another  of  her  noble  gest 
ures,  took  a  sprig  of  the  herb  between  her  thumb 
and  forefinger,  and,  holding  it  up,  addressed  to 
it  her  story,  as  to  the  mysterious  protagonist. 

"This  little  leaflet,  stem,  and  flower  that  you 
see  here  in  my  hand,  seemingly  so  weak  a  thing, 
this  little  twig  that  some  would  call  a  weed  and 
tread  under  foot,  is  stronger  than  you  or  I, 
Gioia  mia  —  yes,  stronger  than  a  whole  village 
full — than  a  whole  town  full  as  big  as  Milano — 
than  an  army — than  all  the  people  of  the  whole 
world.  It  is  a  power  for  good,  and  more  than 
that  an  angel  is  not.  Yes,  Tesoro,  look  well  at  it. 
This  little  herb  has  a  power  that  priests  have 
not." 

"Tell  me  what  power  it  has,  dear  Cecca." 
"Concordia'  is  its  name,  and  concord  it  has 
power  to  bring  between  man  and  wife.  Listen. 
I  will  tell  you  a  true  tale.  You  know  Luisin  and 
Tilde,  who  live  in  the  third  house  from  the  well 
in  Vareggio.  Eh !  You  will  remember  how  they 
were  always  quarrelling.  It  was  sticks  for  break- 

12 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

fast  and  sticks  for  supper.  Blind  as  moles  they 
were  to  the  good  in  each  other.  They  had  slices 
of  salami  on  the  eyes  of  their  hearts  as  big  as  this 
big  palm  of  mine.  So  Tilde  comes  to  me  crying 
one  night.  Her  back  is  all  blue  and  green  where 
he  banged  her  with  the  tongs.  Says  she:  'Oh, 
Cecca!  You  have  the  good  power,  they  say. 
Give  me  a  spell,  for  my  man  will  surely  kill  me 
some  day  if  there  is  no  help.  Priests  are  no 
good,  the  Madonna  pardon  me,'  says  she.  Then, 
Gioia,  what  do  I  say  to  her?  'Take  this  little 
herb,'  say  I.  'Little  it  is,  but  it  is  stronger  than 
your  man,  even  when  he  has  the  tongs,'  say  I. 
'Take  this  little  herb' — it  was  not  so  big  a  piece 
as  this  bit  I  hold  here  in  my  hand,  car  a  mia— 
'take  this,'  say  I,  giving  it  to  her,  'and  boil  it  in 
your  minestron,  and  see  that  of  that  soup  you 
eat  together.'  Thus  I  tell  her.  ..." 

She  stopped  short,  brought  the  sprig  of  Con- 
cordia  close  to  her  eyes,  regarded  it  earnestly, 
then  held  it  off  again,  and  pointed  to  it  with  the 
forefinger  of  her  other  hand. 

"Well?"  said  Dione. 

"My  treasure,"  said  Cecca,  "that  was  eight 
months  ago,  and  they  have  never  quarrelled 
since." 

"Miraculous!"  said  Dione. 

"Yes,  it  is  miraculous,"  assented  Cecca.  "Will 
you  keep  this  sprig  for  good-fortune?" 

"A  thousand  thanks!  I  shall  love  to  have  it." 
13 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

She  slipped  it  in  the  folds  of  her  soft,  green 
linen  blouse,  and  then,  chin  on  both  hands,  sat 
listening  gravely  to  further  stories  of  the  herbs 
and  their  "powers."  At  last  Cecca  said,  sud 
denly  : 

"And  la  mamma?  Were  the  sciori  (gentle 
folk)  still  in  the  house  as  you  came  through?" 

"Yes.  Cecca,  how  can  my  mother  amuse  her 
self  with  such  tattling,  gossiping,  geese  of  peo- 

pie?'; 

"E  una  bambina"  (She's  a  baby),  said  Cecca, 
indulgently. 

"E  una  bambola"  (She's  a  doll),  replied  Dione, 
not  with  scorn  or  with  intention  of  disrespect, 
but  merely  as  one  stating  a  fact. 

"My  dear,"  said  Cecca,  sternly,  "that  is  not  a 
good  way  to  speak,  as  I  have  said  before.  After 
all,  she  is  your  mother.  '  Honor  thy  father  and 
thy  mother.'" 

"I  have  always  thought  that  a  foolish  saying," 
replied  Dione,  unmoved.  "Either  one's  parents 
are  honorable  and  one  honors  them,  or  they  are 
not,  and  one  does  not.  I  honored  my  father.  I 
could  as  soon  honor  a  little  yellow  hen  as  my 
mother.  It  is  all  very  well  to  say  '  God  says  you 
must  do  this  and  that.'  If  it  were  to  strike  or 
not  to  strike  one  might  obey;  but  when  it  is 
one's  feelings  that  are  ordered  about,  why,  they 
simply  cannot  be  ordered  about.  There,  that  is 
truth." 

14 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  sometimes  seems  to  me,"  said  Cecca,  still 
stern,  "that  one  can  love  the  truth  too  much. 
One  can  make  it  into  a  sort  of  idol  and  worship 
it.  There  are  truths  and  truths.  Some  can  be 
brought  into  the  light  of  day  and  do  men  good, 
and  others  ought  to  be  put  into  coffins  and  laid 
in  the  dark." 

"If  one  did,  their  ghosts  would  walk." 

Cecca  "made  horns"  again,  and  then  sweeping 
forward  and  downward  a  forefinger,  that  in 
dicated  Dione's  figure  from  head  to  feet: 

"Tousetta,"  said  she,  "you  are  so  young  that 
you  think  wisdom  twinned  at  your  birth,  but, 
listen  well,  some  day  one  of  these  truths  that 
you  are  so  fond  of  will  eat  you  whole." 

' '  One  might  die  a  worse  death  than  to  be  eaten 
by  truth,"  said  Dione. 

"Eh,  but  perhaps  one  doesn't  die.  Perhaps 
one  just  stays  alive  in  its  maw  and  suffers." 

"Cecca  mia,  nothing  in  the  world  can  keep  me 
from  seeking  the  truth,  and  speaking  the  truth, 
and  seeing  the  truth.  That  was  one  thing  that 
my  father  taught  me  among  others,  and  I  also 
think  that  I  was  born  with  it  already  in  me." 

"You  were  born  very  obstinate,  as  God  knows 
and  the  poor  balia  who  tried  to  wean  you.  What 
that  poor  woman  suffered!  .  .  .  wormwood 
would  not  do.  I  had  to  put  powder  of  quinine 
on  her  breast  before  you  would  give  up." 

Dione  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 
15 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  have  always  been  so  glad  that  my  mother 
did  not  nurse  me,"  she  then  said.  "And  that  is 
another  truth  for  you." 

Cecca  returned  her  gaze  severely. 

"You  are  in  a  little  devil's  mood  to-day,  and 
that  is  a  truth  for  you,"  said  she.  "And  I  have 
some  more  truths  to  tell  you  about  truth  which 
it  will  be  very  good  for  you  to  listen  to.  Too 
much  truth,  my  dear,  is  like  too  much  wine. 
First  it  goes  to  one's  head  and  then  to  one's  en 
trails,  and  then  it  turns  into  poison  and  poisons 
one.  Yes,  my  dear,  the  Lord  God  is  the  only 
One  who  can  afford  to  see  and  hear  and  speak 
the  whole  truth,  for  He  is  almighty,  and  if  truth 
gets  too  strong  He  can  set  His  foot  upon  it.  Not 
even  the  devil  himself  (she  'made  horns'  again) 
can  afford  to  tell  all  the  truth,  because  if  he  did 
he  would  have  to  say  that  it  distressed  him  to 
be  in  hell,  and  then  all  the  devilkins  and  witches 
would  turn  upon  him  and  tear  him  to  pieces  for 
a  turncoat.  Ecco!  There  are  some  truths  that 
I'll  wager  you  did  not  know  before." 

Dione  almost  never  laughed  and  rarely  smiled, 
or  she  would  have  done  both  at  that  moment. 
She  only  looked  affectionately  at  her  old  nurse 
as  she  ended  her  philosophical  tirade,  and  said 
' '  Ciao  ! ' ' — that  elastic  dialect  word  which  is  some 
thing  like  the  German  bitte  in  its  comprehen 
siveness.  It  may  signify  "Good-bye,"  or  "How 
d'ye  do?"  or  "There's  an  end  of  it,"  or  "I  can't 

16 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

help  it,"  or  "The  Lord's  will  be  done,"  or  "Take 
it  or  leave  it"- — and  a  dozen  more  things  beside. 
"Eh,  ciaoT  said  Dione.  "Now  that  you  have 
said  what  was  on  your  mind,  you  will  be  nice  to 
me.  And  I  am  glad,  for  there  is  a  thing  that  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  very  much.  Why  have  you 
written  those  strange  words  over  your  door, 
Cecca  mia?" 


CHAPTER   III 

CECCA  paused  in  her  work,  and  a  strange, 
inward  look  came  over  her  face.  Then  she 
crossed  herself  rapidly,  made  the  usual  sign 
against  evil,  and,  resting  both  hands,  palm  down, 
upon  the  table,  gazed  at  Dione. 

"Eh,  Gioia,"  said  she,  "that  is  altogether  a 
different  tale  from  the  tale  of  the  Concordia. 
...  It  has  to  do  with  a  stregascia.  ..."  She 
paused  again.  ' '  Perhaps  you  laugh,  eh  ?" 

"No.  ...  I  find  very  few  things  to  laugh  at. 
It  seems  to  me  that  with  most  people  laughing  is 
like  sneezing — a  sort  of  spasm  without  reason. 
I  have  no  cause  to  laugh  at  you,  Cecca.  You 
know  that  I  believe  in  many  things  myself  at 
which  other  folk  would  laugh." 

"Eh,  truly,"  said  Cecca,  "the  way  that  my 
milk  and  honey  take  legs  to  themselves  and  walk 
off,  so  to  speak,  would  vex  many  a  housewife. 
It  seems  strange  that  those  sciori  of  yours  that 
one  can't  see  should  be  so  fond  of  milk  and 
honey." 

"It  is  an  old  custom,  and  it  pleases  me  to  offer 
the  wood-gods  milk  and  honey  for  fair  weather 

18 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

right  in  the  face  of  the  Church.  Evoe!  Wood- 
gods,  I  say,  I  bring  you  fair  milk  and  honey  and 
little  wheaten-cakes :  grant  that  the  mareng 
(the  sirocco)  be  blown  flat  to-day  by  the  mag- 
gior.  And  all  the  while  the  bells  of  Ceredo  and 
San  Maurizio  are  ringing,  and  no  one  there  knows 
that  the  old,  forgotten  gods  are  being  invoked. 
I  find  that  very  pleasant." 

"And  do  they  answer?" 

"When  they  see  fit,"  said  Dione,  gravely. 
"Sometimes  before  I  have  set  my  feet  upon  the 
ground,  after  climbing  to  lay  the  little  leaf- 
basket  in  the  notch  of  a  tree  where  none  will  see 
it,  yes.  ...  I  have  known  the  maggior  to  rise 
even  while  I  was  in  the  tree." 

' ' Madonna  mia  /"  breathed  Cecca,  awed.  ' ' The 
saints  grant  that  there  be  no  evil  in  it." 

Dione  smiled  now,  her  slow,  rare  smile,  and 
her  strange  face  became  beautiful. 

"There  is  no  evil  in  it,  cam,"  said  she.  "How 
could  there  be  evil  in  asking  for  fair  weather? 
Do  not  your  priests  do  it  ?" 

"Surely;  but  then  they  ask  it  of  God,  and  that 
is  very  different." 

"No,"  said  Dione.  "They  do  not  ask  it  of 
God.  They  ask  it  of  Saint  this,  or  Santa  that, 
or  the  Madonna,  or  one  of  the  bambini.  ..." 

"Still,"  said  Cecca,  unconvinced,  "it  seems  to 
me  a  very  dangerous  custom." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Dione, 
19 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Not  Afraid  was  eaten  by  an  accident,  my 
dear." 

"And  accident  is  the  only  devil,  though  you 
believe  in  one  with  horns  and  tail." 

"Signer!"  cried  Cecca,  and  "made  horns" 
herself,  with  both  hands,  three  times  in  rapid 
succession. 

"And  now,"  said  Dione,  "tell  me  the  tale  of 
the  stregascia." 

"Ciao,"  said  Cecca,  "but  we  will  not  name 
her,  my  dear,  though  you  know  very  well  who 
she  is  and  see  her  often.  It  is  not  well  to  say 
the  name  of  a  jettatrice  (one  with  the  evil  eye) , 
even  if  one  makes  the  horns  when  one  says  it. 
Ciao  ...  I  will  tell  you.  This  woman  is  very 
evil,  my  child.  She  is  truly  bolic.  If  one  angers 
her  she  throws  it  after  one  .  .  .  and  she  has 
great  power.  Ebbene!  ...  I  angered  her — and 
many  things  not  at  all  good  happened  to  me. 
We  will  not  speak  of  them  now.  But  three 
nights  ago  ...  if  you  laugh  at  this  I  shall  be 
very  angry  indeed  ..." 

"I  have  not  the  least  desire  to  laugh,"  said 
Dione. 

"Ciao  .  .  .  laugh  or  not,  this  is  what  took 
place.  I  was  lying  quietly  on  my  bed  when  I 
hear  a  soft  yet  evil  noise — frrt  ,  .  .  frrt  /  .  .  .  I 
cannot  tell  you  why  I  knew  that  it  was  evil,  but 
I  did  know  it.  ...  It  is  as  when  one  falls  in  the 
water  and  gets  wet.  One  does  not  know  by 

20 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

reason  that  one  is  wet,  one  only  knows  well  that 
one  is  wet.  And  when  one  knows  things  that 
way,  my  dear,  they  are  true." 

"I  understand,"  said  Dione. 

"Well,  Gioia,  this  evil  thing  I  took  at  first  to 
be  a  bat  flitting  about  my  room.  .  .  .  And  just 
as  I  was  about  to  rise  and  get  a  cloth  to  strike  at 
it  ...  a  little,  greenish  paring  of  moon  slides 
across  my  window  .  .  .  and — /  see  that  stregas- 
cia,  seated  on  a  broom  of  twigs,  going  about  and 
about  my  room  like  a  great  bat  of  the  Inferno  ..." 

Cecca  stopped,  and,  wiping  the  perspiration 
from  her  brow  with  the  back  of  one  hand,  flung 
aside  the  drops  with  a  snapping  gesture. 

"Dio  mio,"  said  she,  "I  am  bathed  in  cold 
sweat  just  remembering  it." 

"It  must  have  been  terrible,"  assented  Dione, 
with  sympathy.  "What  did  you  do  ?" 

' '  I  knew  the  right  words  to  say,  the  Madonna 
be  praised,  and  I  said  them." 

"Then?  ..." 

"Then  away  with  her  out  of  the  window, 
and  I  hear  the  vines  crackling  and  the  little 
birds  cheeping  with  terror  where  she  crashed 
through." 

"So  that  is  why— 

"Listen.  Your  grandfather,  my  dear,  your 
mother's  father,  was  a  wise  old  man.  He  had 
many  learned  books  on  the  subject  of  witches 
and  evil  spirits  of  all  sorts.  Some  of  these  I  have. 

21 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

And  from  one  of  them  I  got  those  words  that  are 
written  above  my  door.  And  since  you  like 
truth  so  much,  this  tale  should  please  you,  for 
it  is  true,  every  word." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dione.  "It  may  be  that 
witches  exist  for  those  who  believe  in  them.  I 
sometimes  think  that  by  believing  in  things  we 
make  them  exist." 

Cecca  pondered  this  for  a  moment. 

"That  is  a  strange  belief,"  said  she  at  last. 

"Well,  you  know  that  you  tell  me  I  am 
strange." 

' '  You  were  born  with  a  caul,  my  dear.  People 
who  are  born  with  cauls  are  both  strange  and  see 
strange  sights.  I  have  that  caul,  my  dear.  It 
is  a  thing  of  great  power." 

Dione  sat  gazing  before  her  so  intently  that  all 
at  once  Cecca  and  the  table  and  the  little  bundles 
of  herbs  grew  very  small  and  receded  in  a  bright 
haze.  Then  she  closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them 
very  wide,  as  though  coming  out  of  a  sleep. 

' '  Cecca, ' '  said  she, ' '  did  you  want  your  children 
before  they  came?" 

" Santa  Maria!  What  questions  you  ask!" 
exclaimed  her  nurse.  "Did  I  want  them? 
Should  a  cow  and  a  goat  and  a  cat  want  their 
little  ones,  and  a  woman  not  want  hers  ?  Surely 
I  wanted  them." 

"Were  you  afraid?" 

"Afraid?  .  .  .  Mamma  mia!  ...  No  one  wants 

22 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

pain.  But  I  was  a  brava  tousa  (a  fine  girl).  I 
had  good  health,  and  also  I  knew  that  a  woman 
who  dies  in  childbirth  goes  straight  to  paradise." 

"Did  it  hurt  much?" 

"Ukmatta!"  (She's  crazy!)  cried  Cecca.  '"Did 
it  hurt?  .  .  .  Did  it  hurt?'  ...  Of  course  it 
hurt.  What  would  you?  It's  a  fierce  pain  and 
a  fierce  joy." 

"I  understand,"  said  Dione,  thoughtfully.  "I 
should  like  to  have  a  child,  and  I  should  want 
pain.  I  should  not  like  to  have  a  child  as  one 
buys  a  doll  from  a  shop,  with  no  trouble  at  all. 
Yes  ...  I  should  like  to  have  a  son  ...  a  big, 
strong  boy,  who  wrould  grow  to  be  a  fine  man  and 
take  the  world  and  play  with  it  like  a  ball  .  .  . 
and  do  fine  things  with  it." 

"The  Virgin  hear  her!"  cried  Cecca.  "Never 
was  there  such  a  girl-child  born  into  the  world ! 
Why,  even  peasant  girls  would  be  shy  of  saying 
such  a  thing  plump  out!" 

"I  do  not  see  why,"  replied  Dione.  "I  have 
said  nothing  shameful.  Of  course,  I  should  want 
my  son  to  be  born  honourably.  I  should  want 
him  to  inherit  a  good  name  and  add  honour  to  it. 
I  should  want  to  love  his  father  and  be  loved  by 
him.  I  am  no  thing  of  straw.  I  am  a  woman, 
and  I  should  want  to  love  my  man  with  all  the 
life  that  is  in  me." 

Cecca  gazed  at  her  with  great,  considering 
eyes,  grown  suddenly  soft. 

23 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"The  Madonna  send  you  a  good  husband, 
Gioia  mia,"  she  said,  finally,  in  a  loving  voice. 

Dione  laid  her  firm,  beautifully  chiselled  hand 
in  her  old  nurse's  outstretched  palm  with  a  strong 
grasp. 

' '  I  shall  ask  one  of  the  great  old-time  gods  to 
do  that,"  she  said.  "I  have  thought  of  it  be 
fore." 


CHAPTER  IV 

!  la  Peppa!"  cried  Cccca,  suddenly,  start- 
ing  to  her  feet.  "There  is  the  mamma 
calling.  ...  By  the  sound  of  her  voice  she  has 
been  calling  a  long  time.  .  .  .  Vengo!  Vengo! 
.  .  .  Am  I  tidy,  Gioia?  She  may  want  me  to 
carry  wine  and  cake  to  the  sciori." 

"Let  me  smooth  your  headkerchief  a  bit. 
There  .  .  .  now  you  are  as  tidy  as  a  wren." 

Dione  adjusted  the  gold  pins  in  the  white  head- 
kerchief  with  its  printed  border  of  nasturtiums, 
pulled  out  the  ends,  and,  taking  Cecca 's  face  in 
her  two  hands,  kissed  her  between  the  eyes. 

' '  Vengo  !  Vengo  /  "  (I  come !  I  come !)  called 
Cecca  again,  rushing  toward  the  door.  "Eh, 
but  she'll  be  in  a  fine  rage  with  me!" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Dione,  consolingly.  "It's 
only  like  the  popping  of  a  rose-leaf  on  the  back 
of  one's  hand.  It  doesn't  hurt." 

As  she  was  speaking,  and  Cecca  reached  the 
door,  it  flew  open,  and  Madame  Rupin  stood 
quivering  like  a  little  snake  on  the  threshold. 
She  darted  forked  words  at  her  laggard  servant. 

"Snail!  Deaf  one!"  said  she.  "It  is  a  disgrace! 
25 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

...  an  infamy!  .  .  .  Am  I  to  shriek  my  throat 
sore  and  run  my  feet  off,  and  you  here  idling  the 
day  away,  and  company  in  the  parlor?  .  .  .  Ah! 
And  so  there  you  are,"  stabbing  a  little  white 
finger  with  a  black  nail  toward  Dione.  "There 
you  are  in  a  dress  like  a  peasant's,  and  Signora 
Varoni  and  her  son  here  for  the  first  time,  and 
asking  for  you.  Dio  miol  Dio  mio!  As  if  I 
hadn't  enough  troubles  to  turn  my  eyebrows 
gray  without  you  two  heaping  them  on  me. 
And  the  Varoning  (the  young  Varoni)  so  elegant 
and  homme  du  monde  in  his  English  clothes.  .  .  . 
Yes,  he  is  a  real  scior  (gentleman) ....  He  sends 
his  shirts  to  England  to  be  laundered !  .  .  .  And 
the  Madonna  only  knows  how  much  money 
they  have.  .  .  .  And  you  in  that  cotton  shift! 
And  .  .  ." 

"It's  not  a  shift,  mamma,"  said  Dione;  "it's  a 
very  nice  blouse  and  skirt.  But  I  can  change  it 
'if  you  wish,  though  I  don't  think  a  boy  who  sends 
his  shirts  to  England  to  be  washed  is  worth  tak 
ing  much  trouble  for,  since  he  must  necessarily 
be  a  fool." 

"Oh,  Madonna!  Oh,  Santa  Anna!  Give  me 
patience ! ' '  cried  the  exasperated  mother.  ' '  Was 
there  ever  such  a  girl  ?  .  .  .  Here  I  am,  boiling 
my  brains  to  syrup  night  and  day  to  find  her  a 
husband,  and  she  calls  a  man  who  has  money 
enough  to  send  his  shirts  to  England  to  be  washed, 
a  fool!  Oh,  I  shall  smother!  ...  I  shall  burst!" 

26 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

And  she  actually  ripped  open  three  buttons  of 
her  bodice. 

"Lassala  bui!"  (Let  it  boil!)  Cecca  had  growled 
at  first,  with  one  of  her  favorite  expressions ;  but 
when  she  saw  the  spoiled  child  actually  on  the 
way  to  tearing  her  silk  gown  she  became  the 
soothing  nurse  again  in  an  instant. 

"A/a,  na,  cara,"  said  she,  wheedlingly. 
"Don't  hurt  your  pretty  fingers  like  that  and 
spoil  your  pretty  frock.  Go  back  to  the  sciori 
and  talk  nicely,  and  before  you  can  wink  I  will 
be  there  with  the  Marsala  and  almond-cakes, 
and  the  little  daughter  will  have  on  her  white 
linen  and  Venetian  sash,  and  then — who  knows  ? 
.  .  .  There  may  be  a  wedding  before  long. 
Patience! — patience! — take  your  little  mirror 
and  put  a  dust  of  powder  on  your  little  nose,  for 
it  always  shines,  you  know,  when  you  get  so 
angry." 

Madame  Rupin  let  herself  be  coaxed  and 
powdered,  and  the  drops  of  wrath  whisked  from 
the  corners  of  her  eyes.  Then  when  she  was  re 
adjusted  and  calm,  and  Cecca  had  hurried  off, 
she  turned  to  her  tall  and  silent  daughter,  who 
reminded  her  so  irritatingly  of  her  tall  and  silent 
husband. 

"Be  sure,"  said  she,  "to  pinch  your  cheeks  be 
fore  you  enter.  It's  absurd  to  have  such  a  red 
mouth  in  such  a  pale  face.  And  puff  out  your 
hair  more  in  the  fashion.  You  will  find  two  side- 
ay 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

combs  on  my  dressing-table.  Yes,  and  put  on 
your  Venetian  beads  with  the  sash.  It  is  cer 
tainly  a  trial  to  a  mother  to  have  her  daughter 
look  such  a  forestiera  (foreigner),  but  at  least 
you  can  dress  like  an  Italian  girl  when  I  have 
guests.  Yes,  that  you  can  do  at  least.  .  .  . 
So  be  quick,  and  carry  out  my  instructions  ex 
actly." 

With  this  she  disappeared,  and  Dione,  looking 
after  her,  put  her  two  arms  above  her  head  and 
twisted  her  lithe  body  in  a  stretch  of  supreme 
boredom,  yawning  deeply  as  she  did  so. 

"I  wonder,"  said  she,  aloud,  with  arms  still 
high  above  her  head,  "who  sorts  out  the 
mothers  and  daughters?  I  cannot  say  that  it 
seems  to  me  they  have  much  talent  for  their 
task." 

Then  she  let  both  arms  drop  about  Masciett, 
who  had  reared  himself  against  her  with  both 
paws  on  her  chest. 

"  You  are  real,  Mascietton,"  she  said;  "that  is 
why  I  like  you." 

And  she  squeezed  him  hard,  and  kissed  him 
between  the  eyes  as  she  had  kissed  Cecca. 

When  the  girl  entered  the  salottino  with  her 
lustrous  wreath  of  black  flamelets  held  out  by 
the  side-combs  which  she  had  obediently  used, 
and  her  long,  tapering  limbs  clothed  in  the  pearly 
texture  of  her  gown,  though  her  only  ornaments 

28 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

were  the  necklet  of  gold  Venetian  beads  and  the 
saffron  sash,  the  room  seemed  suddenly  to  grow 
smaller  and  the  people  in  it  to  dwindle. 

"E  molto  distinta  ..."  murmured  la  Varoni, 
aside,  to  her  mother,  and  Madame  Rupin  under 
stood  perfectly  that  this  was  said  because  the 
lady  could  use  neither  of  the  terms  "beautiful" 
or  "simpatica"  with  a  clear  conscience.  Pier 
small  nose  began  to  shine,  but  she  was  comforted 
at  once  by  the  evident  impression  that  Dione  was 
making  upon  the  son. 

After  Dione  had  done  her  stately  duty,  and 
passed  Marsala  and  almond-cakes  to  every  one, 
her  mother  took  a  sweet  revenge  on  the  Varoni 
by  saying,  in  a  voice  of  honey : 

"And  now,  Tesoro  mio,  you  can  show  our  old 
garden  to  Signer  Varoni,  who  has  been  admiring 
it  so  much  from  the  window." 

La  Varoni  fanned  herself  a  little  quickly,  but 
the  young  man  jumped  to  his  feet  with  evident 
delight.  As  he  stood  beside  Dione  his  head  just 
topped  her  shoulder,  and  yet  he  was  not  so  very 
small.  He  was  trim  and  dapper,  and  had  nice 
black  eyes  and  little  mustaches,  and  his  clothes 
were  of  the  exaggeratedly  smart  type  that  Eng 
lish  tailors  make  for  continentals. 

"I  shall  be  most  charmed  if  the  Signorina  will 
be  so  gracious,"  said  he,  and  he  made  the  neatest 
of  bows  a  la  Milanese. 

"But  certainly.  I  will  show  it  to  you  with 
29 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

pleasure,"  replied  Dione,  thinking  that  he  worked 
as  perfectly  as  a  toy. 

"Then  may  I  open  the  door  for  you?"  said  he, 
and  held  it  while  she  and  Masciett  passed  through. 

"These  plants,  growing  in  beds  about  the  palm- 
trees,"  said  Dione,  beginning  her  task  conscien 
tiously,  "are  herbs  of  various  sorts.  This  is  a 
rather  curious  one ;  it  is  called  erba  capone.  Will 
you  smell  a  piece?" 

She  held  out  a  sprig,  and  the  young  man  bent 
gallantly  above  her  outstretched  hand  and 
sniffed  at  it. 

"  Per  bacco!"  cried  he,  with  an  enlightened  ex 
pression.  "It  smells  exactly  like  roast  chicken. 
That  is  very  strange." 

"Some  people  put  it  in  salad,"  continued 
Dione,  "but  I  dislike  it  myself.  I  think  it  un 
pleasant  for  a  plant  to  smell  like  flesh." 

"E  vero,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  still 
more  enlightened.  "That  is  what  I  think  also." 

"This  shrub , '  'continued  Dione, "  is  a  purple  mag 
nolia.  I  forget  the  botanical  name  for  it,  though 
my  father  taught  it  me,  but  it  is  not  important." 

"Not  in  the  least!"  exclaimed  Varoni,  enthusi 
astically.  Somehow  it  made  her  seem  more 
human  and  a  little  nearer,  to  know  that  she  had 
forgotten  the  Latin  name.  Her  lashes  were  so 
thick  and  so  dark  that  he  could  not  make  out 
the  exact  color  of  her  eyes. 

30 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  is  strange,"  he  reflected,  "that  her  eyes 
are  not  large,  and  yet  are  very  remarkable.  They 
give  one  a  sensation." 

Though  why  Dione's  eyes  should  have  given 
young  Varoni  "a  sensation"  it  is  not  easy  to  say, 
for  nothing  could  be  more  expressionless  than 
they  when  they  happened  to  rest  upon  him. 

' '  Will  you  have  one  of  these  magnolia  flowers  ?" 
she  now  asked,  politely.  "They  are  rare.  Per 
haps  your  Signora  Mamma  would  be  pleased 
with  it." 

"Gladly!  ...  A  thousand  thanks!"  he  ex 
claimed,  and  he  took  the  large,  unsentimental 
flower  from  her  finger-tips  as  though  it  had  been 
a  violet  and  she  had  drawn  it  from  her  breast. 

"This  column,"  she  went  on,  pausing  beside  it 
a  moment,  "is  very  ancient.  It  was  put  here 
by  the  Romans.  Many  people  have  wanted  to 
buy  it,  but  my  father  would  not  sell  it." 

"He  was  right,  truly!"  cried  Varoni.  "It  is 
most  interesting.  Not  beautiful,  but  interesting. 
Interesting  things  appeal  to  me  more  even  than 
beautiful  things.  How  is  it  with  you,  if  I  may 
ask,  Signorina?" 

"I  like  both,"  said  Dione.  "And  when  they 
are  both  at  the  same  time,  I  like  that  best." 

"Precisely!  Exactly!  .  .  .  What  a  true  re 
mark.  I  think  that  you  are  something  of  a  phi 
losopher,  Signorina." 

Dione  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  he  de- 
Si 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

cided  that  her  eyes  were  a  smoky  gray.  Then 
she  said:  "I  was  trying  to  see  what  there  was 
philosophical  in  my  words,  but  I  could  not  see 
that  there  was  anything." 

"Modesty,"  returned  Varoni,  "is  one  of  the 
most  gracious  of  all  the  virtues." 

Dione  looked  at  him  again,  but  it  was  the 
merest  glance  this  time.  She  did  not  say  any 
thing  more,  and  Varoni  cast  about  in  his  mind  for 
suitable  subjects  of  conversation  with  a  young 
girl,  since,  according  to  her  mother's  regretful  ac 
count  before  her  appearance,  she  cared  neither 
for  balls  nor  any  of  the  gayeties  usually  so  dear  to 
the  hearts  of  most  young  women.  Her  long, 
lissome  walk  was  "going  to  his  head,"  as  he  after 
ward  told  a  friend.  With  him  it  was  th  "coup 
de  foudre"  from  the  first.  That  gait  of  hers,  so 
unlike  the  hippy,  flurried  walk  of  most  Italian 
women,  had  been  the  "coup  de  grace." 

"It  is  so  with  us  Italians,"  he  had  told  his 
English  friend  afterward.  "We  find  a  woman 
simpatica,  pretty,  then  all  at  once — paf ! — we  are 
in  love  with  her,  and  all  because  she  moves  her 
lips  in  a  certain  way,  or  has  a  special  gesture  with 
her  hair,  or — yes,  once  I  had  a  friend  who  fell  in 
love  with  an  American  girl  because  she  whistled 
prettily  from  the  throat!" 

Dione,  quite  unconscious  of  the  emotions  that 
she  was  stirring,  walked  along  in  silence  because 
she  had  nothing  more  to  say  just  then. 

32 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"How  wonderful  that  old  stone  column !"  burst 
forth  Varoni  suddenly,  in  despair  of  a  better  sub 
ject.  "To  think  of  its  having  been  there  in  the 
time  of  the  Romans!" 

Dione  stopped  to  loosen  her  thin  skirt  from  the 
clutch  of  an  agave  plant. 

"As  for  that,"  said  she,  "when  one  comes  to 
think  of  it,  one  stone  is  not  more  ancient  than 
another.  There  is  a  big  one  in  the  field  there 
which  has  a  queer  story." 

"May  I  hear  it  ?"  asked  Varoni,  a  little  dashed. 

"Surely.  One  can  read  what  is  cut  on  it  for 
one's  self." 

"I  beg  you  to  tell  it  to  me,  Signorina." 

"Very  well.  It  lies  on  the  land  of  a  very  ava 
ricious  old  man,  and  before  it  was  dug  up  and 
turned  as  it  now  is,  there  were  curious  characters 
and  numbers  cut  on  its  face.  The  old  man  be 
came  convinced  that  treasure  was  hidden  under 
it,  and  so  he  sent  for  some  learned  people  that  he 
knew,  and  they  made  out  that  the  inscription 
meant  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  move  that 
stone  from  its  bed.  It  was  a  very,  very  big  stone, 
you  must  know." 

"Well?"  said  Varoni.  "I  beg  you  to  go  on. 
I  am  deeply  interested." 

' '  So  was  the  old  man.  He  got  many  workmen 
and  gave  them  much  money,  and  at  last,  be 
hold  !  there  was  the  stone  turned  over  on  its  side 
upon  the  grass." 

3  33 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Ebbene?    Ebbenef" 

"They  found  no  treasure,  but  they  found  more 
writing  on  the  other  side." 

"And  that—?" 

"That  said,  '  You  did  well  to  turn  me.  My  side 
ached.1  I  do  not  often  laugh,  but  I  laughed  when 
I  heard  that  story,  which  is  true,"  said  Dione; 
then  at  sight  of  the  young  man's  face  she  laughed 
again,  and  after  a  second  he  joined  in. 

It  was  a  pity,  he  thought,  as  they  went  on,  that 
with  such  a  laugh  as  that  she  should  not  indulge 
oftener  in  mirth.  And  Dione 's  laughter  was 
really  like  what  one  might  imagine  the  fluting  of 
Pan's  pipes  to  be,  as  he  tries  them  softly. 


CHAPTER  V 

THEY  had  now  reached  the  limit  of  the  gar 
den  to  the  west,  and  Dione  sat  sidewise  on 
the  low  stone  wall,  and  suddenly  unclasping  the 
beads  from  about  her  throat,  dropped  them  into 
her  lap. 

"I  do  not  like  things  round  my  neck.  They 
annoy  me,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Varoni's  un 
conscious  look  of  surprise ;  then,  still  mindful  of 
her  role  of  cicerone :  "  I  believe  that  this  is  one  of 
the  finest  views  of  Lago  Maggiore.  You  say  that 
you  have  never  been  here  before.  Well,  that  is 
Monte  Rosa  to  the  northwest,  and  to  the  south  is 
Angera,  and  those  are  the  Borromean  Islands, and 
that  mountain  opposite  is  called  the  Sasso  di  Ferro. 
And  that  is  Baveno,  where  you  see  the  white  scar 
of  the  quarries,  and  Pallanza  is  there  below  us." 

"Magnificent!"  said  Varoni.  "It  is  like  a 
beautiful  postal  card." 

Dione  gloomed  at  him  for  a  second,  then  she 
said  to  herself,  "Of  what  use  being  angry  with 
a  fool?"  and  merely  observed: 

"No.  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  like  a  postal 
card." 

35 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"But  there  are  very  beautiful  postal  cards, 
Signorina,"  persisted  he,  eagerly,  feeling  some 
how  that  she  was  not  pleased.  "Perhaps  you 
have  never  seen  the  kind  I  mean.  They  are 
painted  by  hand,  by  various  artists.  I  have  a 
friend  in  Milan  who  has  a  remarkable  collection." 

"Still,"  said  Dione,  "I  do  not  think  that  it  can 
be  like  a  postal  card." 

Her  tone  was  final,  and  the  young  man  was 
silent,  wishing  that  the  unfortunate  simile  had 
not  occurred  to  him. 

"What  an  immensity  of  water,"  he  ventured, 
presently,  feeling  that  this  could  not  be  offensive. 

"Yes,"  said  Dione,  "it  is  a  large  lake.  I  be 
lieve  it  is  called  'Maggiore'  for  that  reason." 

And  she  did  not  mean  to  be  disagreeable. 

It  was  near  the  sunset  hour,  and  air  and  water 
sheened  with  the  delicate  tinting  of  a  rainbow's 
double. 

Into  this  gentle  loveliness  the  Sasso  di  Ferro 
(the  Stone  of  Iron — Pan's  Mountain,  as  Dione 
called  it  to  herself)  shouldered  up,  like  a  grim 
fact  into  a  dream.  From  Laveno  came  the  liquid 
note  of  bells,  melting,  mingling,  fainting  out  along 
the  silver  line  of  the  inverna,  that  had  risen  late 
and  would  soon  be  fast  asleep  again.  Then 
would  flow  the  little  intragnola,  the  mountain 
breeze,  all  scented  with  the  dew  of  woodland 
mold  and  new-cut  grass  and  wild  flowers. 

"Like  a  postal  card!"  thought  Dione.  "He 
36 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

should  go  to  England  with  his  laundry  and  learn 
something.  But,  then,  I  must  be  polite  to  him, 
even  if  he  is  a  goose." 

"I  believe  that  you  Milanese  usually  go  to 
Varese  in  the  summer,  do  you  not?"  she  asked, 
in  order  to  say  something. 

"Yes.  Varese  is  very  chic,"  said  Varoni— 
' '  very  gay.  But  this  summer  a  friend  of  ours— 
an  Englishman  who  has  been  visiting  us  in  Milan 
— told  my  mother  that  she  should  really  visit 
Lago  Maggiore — that  it  was,  so  to  speak,  a  duty. 
So  we  came." 

"You  are  very  obedient  to  that  Englishman, 
are  you  not  ?"  said  Dione,  and  she  smiled  for  the 
second  time  that  day.  Varoni  at  that  moment 
forgave  her  all  her  snubbing. 

"He  is  one  to  be  obeyed,  truly,"  said 'he,  smil 
ing  in  return.  ' '  He  has  that  way  with  him.  He 
has  many  ways  with  him.  But,  then,  you  will 
probably  see  for  yourself,  Signorina.  The  mamma 
was  talking  with  Signora  Rupin  about  lodgings 
for  him.  He  wishes  to  come  to  a  little  mountain 
village  not  too  far  from  the  lake.  And  your 
Signora  Mamma  said  that  Ceredo  there"  (he 
pointed  upward)  "would  be  just  the  place  for 
him.  He  is  a  poet  ...  a  very  great  young 
poet,  I  assure  you.  And  he  has  not  long  hair, 
but  looks  like  an  athlete,  and  does  not  'pose'  at 
all,  but  is  very  merry  and  good  company  and 
simpatico.  At  present  he  is  reading  in  the 

37 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Ambrosiana,  for  he  wishes  to  write  a  great  drama 
about  Leonardo.  And  there  is  a  wonderful  book 
of  Leonardo's  in  that  library — so  he  tells  me. 
Then,  you  see,  when  he  has  read  all  that  he  wishes 
he  will  come  here  and  write." 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  Dione,  fixing  on  him 
her  grave  eyes,  now  full  of  expression,  said, 
"What  is  his  name?" 

"His  name  is  Alaric  Kent."  Varoni  pro 
nounced  it  "Alareec." 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  name,"  said  Dione. 

"Yes.  'Alaric'  one  might  call  pretty.  But 
'Kent' — do  you  not  think  it  a  little  abrupt?" 
ventured  he,  somewhat  timidly. 

' '  It  comes  like  a  full-stop — like  a  sort  of  ital 
ics.  I  like  it,"  said  Dione. 

"Well,  that  is  very  pleasant.  I  hope  that  you 
will  like  him,  too." 

'  T  do  not  like  many  people, ' '  said  Dione.  ' '  It 
is  a  fault." 

"But  not  at  all — truly!"  exclaimed  Varoni. 
"It  is  much  more  valuable  when  one  is  liked  by 
some  one  who  does  not  like  many." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Dione. 

She  was  so  little  aware  of  him  that  she  did  not 
observe  the  sentimental  look  in  his  kindly  black 
eyes.  He  was  not  discouraged.  In  his  code  of 
ethics  it  was  quite  fitting  and  eminently  proper 
that  young  girls  should  be  difficult  and  unrespon 
sive.  And,  after  all,  she  liked  something  that  he 

38 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

had  said  to  her.  She  liked  his  friend's  name. 
This  encouraged  him  to  pursue  the  subject. 

"My  friend  Kent  won  cups  for  rowing  at  Ox 
ford  as  well  as  for  mental  qualities,"  he  con 
tinued.  "He  is  what  they  call  an  'all -round 
man '  in  England — that  is  to  say,  a  man  of  many 
qualities.  And  he  is  as  good  a  swordsman  as  any 
Italian.  That  is  very  rare." 

"Yes,"  said  Dione,  "a  man  should  be  a  man, 
even  if  he  is  a  poet." 

This  seemed  a  rather  decided  sentiment  for  a 
young  girl,  but  somehow  Varoni  liked  it. 

"I  am  a  good  swordsman  myself,"  said  he, 
with  the  naivete  of  a  child. 

"As  good  as  he?"  asked  Dione. 

Varoni  flushed. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not,"  said  he,  and 
Dione  liked  him  for  the  first  time,  despite  his  be 
ing  a  "goose." 

"I  dare  say,"  she  said,  gently,  "from  what  you 
tell  me,  that  others  may  do  things  very  excel 
lently  indeed,  only  that  your  friend  does  them 
better." 

"Precisely,"  said  Varoni,  giving  her  a  grateful 
look.  "He  is  truly  a  most  unusual  being." 

"What  sort  of  things  does  he  write?" 

' '  Poems— poems  full  of  life  and  joy.  They  are 
mad  about  him  in  England.  They  say  that  the 
old  Greek  fire  burns  in  him,  and  that  he  is  modern 
—most  modern  also.  And  our  own  poets  think 

39 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

well  of  him,  too.    They  all  say  that  he  is  very 
gifted." 

"And  is  he  very  young?" 

"He  is  twenty-seven  years  old,  but  he  looks 
younger." 

"And  is  he  ugly?" 

"No!  'Ugly'?  Why  ugly?  He  is  a  splendid 
man.  Very  fair.  He  looks  Greek,  as  so  many 
English  do." 

"I  only  thought,"  said  Dione,  "that  he  must 
have  some  failing." 

"Truly,  I  think  not,"  said  little  Varoni,  and 
then  all  at  once  it  occurred  to  him  that  these  ar 
dent  eulogies  of  his  remarkable  friend  were  not 
the  best  means  to  further  his  own  cause.  He  felt 
crestfallen  and  looked  it,  for  his  was  a  limpid 
nature. 

Quickly  Dione  read  what  was  passing  in  his 
little  mind  as  though  his  brow  had  been  trans 
parent,  though  she  was  quite  unaware  of  the  ex 
tent  to  which  she  had  engaged  his  interest.  Be 
ing  of  a  kindly  nature  herself,  she  now  said, 
though  there  was  much  more  that  she  would  have 
liked  to  hear  about  the  marvellous  English 
man: 

"After  all,  perfect  people  are  not  very  amus 
ing  to  talk  about.  Where  there  are  no  shadows 
there  is  no  interest.  Fancy  the  world  without 
shadows." 

"What  an  original  thought!"  said  Varoni. 
40 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Despite  her  will,  Dione's  black  brows  drew  to 
gether.  Then  she  said,  amiably: 

"Do  the  people  in  Varese  ever  sail  or  row  on 
the  lake?" 

Somewhat  bewildered  by  the  sudden  change 
of  subject,  Varoni  replied,  dubiously: 

"  I  do  not  think  that  they  ever  go  to  the  Lake 
of  Varese  at  all." 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Dione,  "how  few  Italians 
care  for  the  water.  Look  at  our  lake  there"— 
she  swept  both  hands  toward  it.  "One  little 
monotipo  came  out  for  the  tramontane,  this  morn 
ing — only  one.  And  now  that  the  intragnola  is 
rising,  and  it  is  the  loveliest  hour  of  all,  there  is 
not  a  sail  in  sight  except  the  great  square  sail  of 
that  old  barca  that  is  carrying  bricks  to  Ghiffa, 
with  its  clumsy  rudder  made  of  a  bent  tree — just 
as  in  the  time  of  the  Romans,  and  perhaps  even 
before." 

This  was  a  long  speech  for  Dione,  and  Varoni 
listened  deferentially,  thinking  how  well  she 
talked,  but  afraid  to  say  so  lest  her  very  sensi 
tive  modesty,  as  he  considered  it,  should  take 
alarm. 

"I  had  never  thought  of  it,  but  it  is  perfectly 
true,"  he  observed,  when  she  had  finished;  then 
added:  "Do  you  read  much,  if  I  may  ask, 
Signorina?" 

"I  read — yes.  Not  so  very  much.  I  like 
mythology." 

41 


"That  is  a  very  original  taste,"  said  Varoni, 
politely,  "but  I  meant  novels,  romances." 

Then,  suddenly  remembering  the  usual  trend 
of  French  and  Italian  novels,  he  supplemented, 
hastily:  "/  Promessi  Sposi  is  considered  a  great 
novel  by  all  nations." 

"Yes.  But  it  is  too  far  off.  I  like  to  hear  of 
things  that  happen  about  one." 

"Yet,  Signorina — mythology?"  he  ventured. 

"That  is  different.  It  does  not  seem  far  off  to 
me." 

"That  is  curious,"  said  the  young  man,  lamely. 

"I  cannot  explain,"  said  Dione. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
Varoni  ventured  again. 

liLe  Roman  d'un  Jeune  Homme  Pauvre  is  a  very 
pretty  romance.  Have  you  read  that?" 

"I  began  it,"  said  Dione. 

He  did  not  ask  whether  she  had  finished  it, 
as  her  tone  was  expressive.  The  necessity  for 
speech,  however,  impelled  him  to  go  on  with  his 
list. 

"Picciola  is  a  charming  book,  I  think.  You 
liked  that,  did  you  not?" 

"I  read  it  so  long  ago,"  said  Dione,  wearily. 
She  slipped  down  from  the  wall  as  the  first  per 
fumed  puff  of  the  intragnola  struck  her  cheek. 

"We  must  return,"  she  explained.  "Signora 
Varoni  will  think  that  we  have  got  lost." 

' '  But  there  must  be  some  romance  that  pleased 
42 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

you,  Signorina,"  persisted  he,  as  they  began  to 
walk  again  toward  the  house.  ' '  That  pretty  tale 
of  Graziella?" 

"I  never  read  it,"  said  Dione.  "I  do  not 
think  that  I  care  much  for  novels.  //  Fuoco  in 
terested  me  at  first.  But  then  I  did  not  like  it. 
It  seemed  to  me  to  have  the  odor  of  a  sick-room 
where  there  is  fever.  I — " 

"You  have  read  //  Fuoco,  Signorina?"  gasped 
Varoni.  "But  surely  .  .  .  but  surely  ..." 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  should  shock  you  very 
much  if  you  knew  me  better,  Signer  Varoni. 
But  you  must  not  blame  my  mamma.  It  was 
my  father  who  educated  me." 

' '  Pardon  me.  I  have  made  you  angry.  I  feel 
it  a  great  misfortune." 

"You  have  not  made  me  angry,  but  I  am  tired, 
and  when  I  am  tired  I  am  apt  to  say  what  I  feel 
too  bluntly.  I  do  not  think  that  I  was  meant 
for  society.  That  is  all." 

"But,  Signorina!  .  .  .  But  allow  me  .  .  ." 

"Do  not  let  us  say  any  more  about  it,  if  you 
please,"  said  Dione,  now  thoroughly  worn  out. 
"I  know  very  well  that  Italian  girls  are  not  sup 
posed  to  have  any  ears  or  eyes  or  brains  until 
after  they  are  married.  It  is  great  nonsense. 
But  what  will  you  ?  It  is  a  custom.  And  cus 
toms  are  what  most  people  live  by.  Do  you 
wonder  that  most  people  are  silly  ?  Here  is  the 
house.  And  here  is  another  magnolia  flower  for 

43 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

the  Signora  Mamma.     I  hope  that  I  have  not 
offended  you  in  my  turn." 

"Signorina!"  was  all  that  the  poor  Varoning 
could  say  before  his  mother  and  Dione's  came  to 
meet  them. 


CHAPTER   VI 

IT  was  nine  o'clock  at  night.  Madame  Rupin 
had  gone  to  an  Illuminazione  in  Intra,  and 
Dione  and  Cecca  were  walking  down  the  moun 
tain-side  toward  Ghiffa,  a  basket  between  them, 
in  which  were  three  magnolia  leaves  folded 
neatly  into  a  little  cup  and  filled  with  cream  and 
honey,  a  small  fiasco  of  red  wine,  and  over  all  a 
fair  linen  cloth. 

Above  them  the  gauzy  sky  drooped  low  as 
though  heavy  with  its  embroidery  of  stars;  the 
planets  deeply  gold  and  still,  the  lesser  lights  of 
flower-lilac,  and  frost-blue,  and  firefly-green, 
darting  spikelets,  seeming  to  shut  and  open  like 
strange  blossoms  of  the  air;  the  fields  of  sky 
palpitated  with  them  as  a  field  of  earth  when  the 
bees  are  questing. 

"I  used  to  think,"  said  Dione,  looking  up  at 
them,  "when  I  was  very  little  that  the  stars  were 
holes  in  the  heaven,  and  that  the  gods  and  god 
desses,  running  on  their  pleasure,  shut  out  the 
light  and  let  it  shine  through  again  with  their 
twinkling  feet." 

"Perhaps  the  angels  really  do  so,"  said  Cecca. 
45 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"But  the  stars  are  not  holes — they  are  worlds." 

"So  I  have  heard  tell,"  said  Cecca,  in  a  tone 
that  evinced  how  little  she  believed  in  hearsay. 

They  now  passed  into  a  thick  wood  of  oak  and 
chestnut,  and  Masciett  began  scouting  in  great 
loops  and  circles  among  the  underbrush. 

"See  him!"  said  Dione.  "He  looks  like  a 
ghost-wolf  in  this  light." 

"Psst!"  whispered  Cecca,  crossing  herself. 
' '  Do  not  say  such  things .  Have  you  never  heard 
of  the  werewolf  ?  An  Austrian  girl  told  me  of  it 
when  I  was  young.  It  is  an  evil  spirit  that  takes 
the  form  of  a  wolf.  On  such  an  errand  as  we  are 
going  I  do  not  like  to  hear  such  things." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Dione. 

"Yes,  that  is  what  you  always  say.  Once  you 
are  made  afraid,  you  will  not  say  it  so  often." 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  ever  be  afraid,"  re 
plied  Dione. 

"Well,  the  saints  grant  it." 

The  wood  grew  darker,  then  thinned.  Through 
the  dim  light,  just  across  their  path,  a  dark  thing 
leaped. 

"What  a  big  hare!"  cried  Dione. 

Cecca  was  crossing  herself,  and  muttering  min 
gled  prayers  and  invocations. 

"It  is  an  evil  omen.  I  fear  the  saints  are 
against  this  errand  of  yours." 

"There  is  no  evil  in  my  errand,"  said  Dione. 

"Ay,  but  you  are  praying  to  strange  powers." 
46 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  do  not  pray — I  only  ask." 

"It  is  the  same,"  said  Cecca. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dione. 

"It  is  precisely  the  same.  Now,  give  me  all 
the  basket  to  carry.  It  is  ridiculous  that  my 
young  sciora  should  help  carry  a  basket." 

"No.     I  like  to  help  carry  it." 

"You  are  obstinate,  as  I've  said." 

"And  what  are  you?" 

"Very  well,"  said  Cecca;  "we  will  not  pull  a 
good  basket  in  two  just  because  you  have  a  pig 
headed  mood  on." 

Directly  above  them  a  little  mountain-owl 
uttered  its  tremulous,  wild  cry. 

"Signer!"  breathed  Cecca,  again  crossing  her 
self.  "This  night  is  full  of  omens.  It  does  not 
please  me  at  all." 

"Why,  it  is  only  a  little  fluffy  owl,"  said 
Dione,  unconscious  that  she  was  quoting  Shel 
ley. 

"Ay,  and  the  seed  of  evil  in  the  heart  of  man  is 
little,  but  it  is  also  mighty." 

"That  owl  would  cry  whether  we  were  passing 
or  not." 

"Yet  it  is  strange  that  it  should  cry  just  as  we 
pass." 

"I  cannot  see  that  it  is,"  said  Dione. 

"Then  you  have  slices  of  salami  on  the  eyes  of 
your  heart,"  returned  Cecca,  with  one  of  her 
favorite  expressions. 

47 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"And  you,"  said  Dione,  "look  for  the  hair  in 
a  new-laid  egg." 

Cecca  hunched  her  shoulders,  and  they  passed 
out  of  the  wood  into  a  vineyard.  Cecca  made 
Dione  keep  to  the  path  while  she  walked  beside 
her  on  the  flowery  grass.  Its  crushed  wetness 
came  up  to  them  in  sweet  whiffs. 

"How  I  love  being  abroad  at  night!"  said 
Dione.  "The  air  is  so  much  purer  when  others 
are  not  breathing  it  in  and  out.  And  then  all 
things  seem  to  have  a  secret  to  tell.  'Hush!'  the 
little  winds  seem  saying.  'Hush — listen — there 
is  a  great  secret — keep  very  still — and  we  will 
tell  it  to  you.'" 

"And  when  you  keep  very  still,  are  you  told 
this  secret?" 

"No.  It  is  too  great  to  tell,  after  all.  But 
they  would  like  to  tell  it,  and  I  would  like  to 
hear,  and  that  is  much." 

"That  is  just  nonsense,  it  seems  to  me,"  said 
Cecca,  who  was  getting  irritable  under  the  stress 
of  mystery  that  she  felt  pressing  in  upon  her. 

"Yes.  It  would  naturally  seem  so  to  others. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  mentioned  it." 

"Well,  at  least  here  we  are  at  the  ravine,"  re 
torted  Cecca,  "and  that  is  half-way  down.  The 
Madonna  be  praised!" 

They  sat  for  a  few  moments  on  a  slab  of  rock 
at  its  edge,  and  looked  down  into  the  great 
wooded  cleft.  Below  them  the  dark  tops  of  the 

48 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

chestnut-trees  clung  like  heavy  clouds  to  its 
sides,  and  the  deep  drumming  of  water  came  up 
to  them.  From  lip  to  lip  it  was  filled  with  a 
white  vapor. 

"It  looks  like  a  big  iron  pot  full  of  whipped 
cream,"  said  Cecca. 

"It  looks  more  like  a  witch's  cauldron  full  of 
steam,"  said  Dione. 

"Santa  Maria!"  exclaimed  Cecca,  really  angry 
and  getting  to  her  feet,  "if  you  were  a  bimba  I 
would  give  you  a  pair  of  slaps  that  would  set  your 
ears  ringing !  .  .  .  You  say  those  things  just  be 
cause  you  know  I  dislike  them,  and  it  shows  that 
you  have  a  bad  disposition.  I  should  have  been 
more  severe  with  you  when  you  were  little,  and 
then  you  would  have  respected  me  more  at 
present." 

"Dear  Cecca,"  said  Dione,  clasping  her  unwill 
ing  neck  with  a  white  arm  as  strong  as  a  boy's, 
and  forcing  the  brown  cheek  against  her  own, 
"do  not  be  angry.  I  spoke  thoughtlessly — not 
in  order  to  vex  you,  truly." 

" ''Viva  Dio!"  said  Cecca,  at  once  mollified. 
"All  is  well,  then.  But  unhook  this  sweet  little 
arm  of  yours,  for  you  are  choking  me." 

"It  is  because  I  love  you — I  do  not  love  any 
one  else,  I  believe." 

"And  so  do  I  love  you.     But  it  is  better  to  live 
for  love  than  to  be  choked  for  love,  Tesoro  mio. 
Come,  let  us  go  on.     It  is  a  long  row  to  the  Sasso, 
4  49 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

and  the  mamma  will  be  returning  shortly  after 
midnight." 

They  continued  their  way,  stepping  softly  down 
the  steep,  crooked  little  street  of  Susello,  already 
abed  with  candles  out,  save  in  one  or  two  houses. 
But  softly  as  they  trod,  the  village  curs  sniffed 
them  out  and  rushed  yapping  to  windows  and 
garden  walls.  In  one  room  a  woman  was  trounc 
ing  a  naughty  child,  and  the  babbo  standing  by 
and  remonstrating  weakly. 

"Hear  him,"  said  Dione.  "That  is  the  great 
passion  of  our  Italian  men — their  children — 
though  the  foreigners  write  books  and  say  that 
it  is  women." 

"Yes,  the  fathers  are  mothers  also  with  us, 
and  it  is  the  best  good  in  our  men.  Hark!  He 
has  taken  away  the  child.  He  won't  have  him 
beaten  any  more." 

The  little  one's  snuffling  sobs  of  assuagement, 
coming  evidently  from  the  refuge  of  its  father's 
breast  and  muffled  in  his  neck,  followed  them 
down  the  street.  Then  they  turned,  passed  the 
quaint  old  church,  and  barking  and  sobbing  died 
away. 

But  before  they  began  the  long  descent  to  San 
Maurizio  they  paused  for  a  moment,  arrested  by 
the  grim  majesty  of  the  Sasso  di  Ferro,  as  it 
reared  its  dark  cowl  among  the  stars,  silent,  stu 
pendous,  uninhabited  by  men,  the  haunt  of 
eagles,  its  roots  of  twisted  stone  striking  down 

50 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

to  waters  that  had  never  been  fathomed,  its  vast 
folds  wimpling  on  one  side  toward  Laveno,  like 
the  hide  of  some  prehistoric  monster  too  loose  for 
its  gaunt  bones ;  its  horned  snout  jutted  toward 
Luino,  as  though  scenting  some  prey  for  which 
it  need  not  hasten,  but  which  would  come  by 
destiny  into  its  jaws. 

"E  diabolical"  whispered  Cecca,  shuddering. 
' '  I  feel  its  powers  even  here.  I  do  not  think  that 
I  can  let  you  go  to  that  baleful  mountain  in  the 
night-time.  I  fear  that  ill  might  come  to  you." 

"It  is  not  baleful,"  said  Dione.  "It  is  only 
apart  and  clean  from  men,  and  very  austere.  It 
is  Pan's  Mountain.  It  is  the  one  place  that  he 
has  left  on  this  lovely  lake,  which  was  once  all 
his — the  one  place  where  men  cannot  build  and 
breed,  and  which  they  cannot  sully  with  their 
stupid  laughings  and  weepings  and  little  pinch 
beck  sins  and  virtues.  The  iron  road  goes 
through  its  entrails,  but  the  trains  flash  back  and 
forth  so  quickly  that  it  is  no  more  than  a  darting 
pain  in  the  entrails  of  a  beast.  It  is  Pan's  beast 
—Pan's  shaggy  monster.  He  caresses  its  rough 
sides,  and  sleeps  against  its  haunch,  and  when 
none  are  within  hearing  he  plays  god-music  upon 
his  pipes  of  reed,  and  only  the  passer  a  solitaria 
(the  little  lonely  bird)  pipes  back  to  him;  for  be 
sides  her  there  are  no  song-birds  that  nest  there, 
only  great  eagles  with  rusty  wings  and  crooked, 
well-sharpened  beaks.  Evoe,  Pan!  Pan!  Pan!' 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

ended  the  girl,  lifting  up  her  voice  in  a  great, 
clear  cry. 

Cecca  seized  her  arm,  and  shook  her  to  and  fro 
sharply,  as  when  she  had  been  a  naughty  child. 

"Silence!"  said  she.  "Do  you  want  folk  to 
think  that  there  is  a  madwoman  loose  on  the 
mountains  and  come  after  us  with  torches? 
Madonna  mia!  are  you  not  afraid  to  shout  the 
name  of  your  pagan  gods  in  the  very  face  of  Holy 
Church,  and  the  cemetery  of  San  Maurizio  to  be 
passed  in  a  few  moments?  Do  you  make  that 
noise  again  I  shall  dump  the  basket  over  this 
wall,  and  not  another  step  forward  will  I  take 
with  you  this  night." 

"Cecca,"  said  Dione,  soberly,  smoothing  back 
her  sleeve  where  her  nurse's  vehement  fingers  had 
creased  it,  "you  are  just  as  bad  as  I  am.  You 
believe  in  witches  and  throw  spells  against  them, 
and  you  know  that  the  Church  forbids  you  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  witches  whatever." 

"Oh,  that  you  were  little  again  and  I  had  the 
spanking  of  you!"  was  Cecca 's  only  retort. 

Then  she  started  violently,  as  Dione,  in  her 
turn,  grasped  the  arm  nearesther,  saying, ' '  Look !" 

"What  is  it?  .  .  .  What  is  it ?"  gasped  Cecca, 
and  she  crossed  and  recrossed  herself. 

"Nothing  to  be  afraid  of,"  whispered  the  girl. 
"Only  Pan's  torch  coming  up  behind  the  Sasso. 
See  the  glow  from  it,  as  from  a  town  on  fire! 
Look,  Cecca,  look!  ...  Is  it  not  wonderful!" 

52 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

A  deep  saffron  glow,  soft  but  intense,  was 
spreading,  spreading  behind  the  horny  crest  of 
the  crouching  mountain.  It  was  as  though  the 
dark  scales  of  its  hide  emitted  a  steam  of  phos 
phorus,  or  as  though  its  silent  breath  was  light 
ed  by  inward  fire.  Through  this  great  veil  of 
light  the  scattered  stars  that  had  not  yet  gone 
out  in  it  glittered  delicately,  as  might  sparks  of 
mica  drifting  against  a  sunset  cloud. 

Then,  all  at  once,  with  the  pang  of  a  sudden 
note  of  music,  the  clear  rim  of  the  moon  stole  up 
against  its  edge,  gently,  stealthily,  as  though,  in 
some  madcap  prank  of  a  girl-goddess,  she  would 
catch  the  great  god  sleeping,  and  gild  for  him  his 
little  goat  feet  before  he  woke  to  find  her  far  be 
yond  his  reach — high  in  air  above  the  rough  husk 
of  the  earth  over  which  he  ruled. 

Up  and  up  she  crept, ever  clearer,  more  brilliant. 

' '  Feel  it ! "  cried  Dione.  ' '  Feel  the  earth  falling 
forward  through  space  with  us.  Do  you  see  the 
edge  of  the  Sasso  dip  and  dip  in  pulse-beats  as  it 
turns  with  the  turning  of  the  earth." 

"I  feel  that  you  are  going  mad,"  said  Cecca, 
fiercely,  "and  that  I  will  be  going  mad  also  if  I 
stand  here  listening  to  you.  That  is  what  I  feel. 
So  if  you  want  any  more  help  from  me  you  will 
just  come  down  this  hillside  with  me  as  fast^  as 
your  two  feet  can  carry  you.  I  am  regretting 
with  a  heavy  heart  that  I  ever  let  you  coax  me 
into  coming  with  you  at  all." 

53 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"A/a,  na,  Cecca  mia,"  murmured  Dione,  coax- 
ingly,  as  they  went  down  the  hill  together. 
"Don't  you  know  it's  all  just  poetry  that  I'm 
feeling?  I  can't  put  it  into  a  book,  but  I  can 
feel  it  in  my  blood,  and  who  knows  if  that  is  not 
even  better  ?  If  you  read  what  I  say  in  a  book, 
car  a  Cecca,  you  would  say,  'Eh!  What  fine 
poetry!'  But  as  you  can  only  hear  it  from  my 
lips,  you  say, 'Madonna!  What  craziness !'  Now 
that  is  the  whole  truth,  I  assure  you,  Cecca  mia." 

"Well,  that  does  not  save  you,"  growled  Cecca, 
"for  I've  always  held  that  poetry  is  a  sort  of 
madness,  and  many  sensible  people  hold  the  same 
belief.  So  you  had  better  be  silent  if  you  want 
me  to  carry  out  this  crazy  errand  with  you  —  at 
least,  till  we  have  passed  the  cemetery." 

"Very  well,  I  will  be  silent,"  said  Dione. 


CHAPTER  VII 

'"THEY  went  under  the  silent  portico  of  San 
1  Maurizio,  ivory  and  ebony  in  the  just-risen 
moonlight,  along  the  twisting  stone  steps  to  the 
highroad,  past  the  cemetery,  where,  in  one  newly 
built,  pretentious,  empty  tomb,  a  light  burned 
all  night  long,  and  so  down  to  the  shore  in 
safety. 

' '  Ciao !' '  said  Cecca.  ' '  The  Madonna  be  thank 
ed.  It  is  always  a  great  test  of  my  faith  to  pass 
that  cemetery." 

The  picturesque  little  hat  factory  of  rubble, 
that  sat  with  its  toes  in  the  lake,  was  soon  left  be 
hind,  and  a  few  yards  more  brought  them  to  the 
Osteria  del  Pcsce  d'Oro  (Tavern  of  the  Gold  Fish), 
in  which  lived  Ping,  the  padrone  and  the  guar 
dian  of  Dione's  rowboat. 

They  could  see  no  light  from  the  road  where 
they  stood. 

"Is  it  possible  that  lazy  baloss  (scamp)  is  abed 
already— perhaps  drunk?"  said  Cecca. 

"Da  la  vos"  (Give  the  voice),  said  Dione,  in 
dialect. 

"Ohe!  .  .  .  Ping!  .  .  .  Ping!"  called  Cecca. 
55 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Avanti  .  .  .  Avanti, "  came  the  prompt  reply, 
evidently  from  a  full  mouth. 

"The  pig!"  growled  Cecca.  "He  is  eating  at 
this  hour  of  the  night,  and  drinking,  too,  I'll 
wager." 

She  mounted  the  stone  stair,  banged  open  the 
door  with  her  open  palm,  and  she  and  Dione  en 
tered  the  small,  stuffy  room. 

Ping  was  seated  on  a  backless  carved  chair 
that  had  once  ornamented  the  sala  of  some  villa, 
with  a  huge  bowl  of  risotto  and  fish  between  his 
knees,  and  a  scarred,  one-eyed,  cynical-looking 
cat  on  his  shoulder. 

The  cat  humped  her  back  as  they  entered  and 
stood  up  in.  a  loop,  with  all  four  feet  close  to 
gether  and  her  tail  stiff  like  a  handle. 

"Voglino  star  servitef"  said  Ping,  with  the 
usual  formula;  then  added,  with  a  grin:  "£ 
molto  furba  (she's  mighty  cunning) .  She  thinks 
you're  coming  to  eat  with  me,  and  that  there  will 
not  be  much  left  for  her." 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  Dione. 

"Scusi  .  .  .  scusi,"  said  he,  and,  jumping  up, 
shrugged  the  cat  onto  the  floor,  and  trundled 
out  two  evil-looking  stuffed  chairs  from  a  dark 
corner. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dione,  "we  have  not  time 
to  sit  down.  I  only  want  my  boat." 

"Instantly,"  said  Ping,  wiping  his  glistening 
mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  the  back  of 

56 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

his  hand  on  one  of  the  chairs.     "I  come  at 
once." 

"I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  your  supper,"  said 
Dione. 

"Niente,  niente,"  replied  he,  cheerfully.  "First 
a  mouthful  of  fresh  air,  then  a  mouthful  of  risotto. 
It  will  taste  all  the  better.  But  may  I  not  give 
the  Sciora  Dione  a  drop  of  wine  ?  I  have  some 
excellent  Chianti  ..." 

"Hear  him!"  said  Cecca.  "The  very  wine 
would  blush  redder  to  hear  you  call  it  Chianti." 

"But  I  assure  you,  Sciora  Cecca,  'tis  Chianti, 
and  of  the  best." 

"Via!"  said  Cecca.  "Do  not  add  lie  to  lie, 
but  hurry  with  that  boat  for  which  the  Signorina 
is  waiting." 

"I  come,"  said  he,  resignedly. 

Ping,  whose  real  name  was  Rodolfo,  but  who 
had  always  been  called  "Ping,"  was  decidedly  a 
baloss  and  a  gypsy  by  nature  if  not  by  birth. 
He  was  unmarried,  and  the  Osteria  del  Pesce 
d'Oro  would  have  fared  badly  if  an  old  aunt  of 
his  had  not  consented  to  act  as  padrona  for  a 
small  consideration  —  how  small  only  she  and 
Ping  knew,  for  she  was  ashamed  to  tell  it,  even 
as  a  grievance,  and  he  was  too  astute. 

He  could  stick  to  no  regular  occupation,  but  did 
odd  jobs  about,  as  the  mood  took  him,  and  was 
at  present  acting  as  grave-digger  at  San  Maurizio. 

He  was  a  small,  wiry  imp,  with  the  head  < 
57 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Digger  Indian,  yet  good-looking  despite  it,  and, 
though  he  had  no  lawful  wife,  it  was  said  that  the 
little  Pings  would  have  filled  a  mammoth  pin 
cushion.  He  was,  indeed,  a  man  of  "good 
fortunes,"  of  good-nature,  of  good  wit,  and  of 
absolutely  no  morals. 

Cecca  had  vexed  him  about  the  so-called 
Chianti,  and  as  they  went  down  the  pebbly  shore 
he  sought  to  get  even  with  her. 

"Eh,  Mamma  Cecca,"  said  he,  "do  you  not 
know  that  your  stregascia  has  been  seen  abroad 
to-night?  I  wonder  that  you  are  afraid  to  be 
out  at  this  hour.  Only  this  morning  I  made  a 
fine  new  broom  of  twigs,  and  behold!  when  I 
went  to  sweep  off  the  steps  with  it  this  evening 
it  was  gone!" 

"First  of  all,"  retorted  Cecca,  tartly,  "I  de 
sire  that  you  do  not  address  me  as  'Mamma.' 
The  saints  be  praised  I  am  no  relation  to  you 
whatever.  In  the  second  place,  you  are  a  busar- 
don  (a  great  liar),  as  all  the  world  knows.  You 
sweep  the  steps !  .  .  .  You  would  sweep  the  sky 
with  a  witch's  broom  truly  if  the  stars  were  ten- 
lire  pieces,  and  that  is  all  the  sweeping  that  you 
would  ever  do!" 

"  Tis  probable,"  said  Ping,  good-humoredly. 
"La  Peppa!  What  a  fine  sweeping  that  would 
be  to-night !"  he  added,  glancing  up  at  the  glitter 
ing  sky  as  he  got  into  his  leaky  little  dingey  to 
go  after  the  Am-pias-a-mi. 

58 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

^  This  name  of  Dione's  boat  was  a  real  trial  to 
Cecca.  A  name  in  dialect  was  no  name  for  a 
"Sciora's"  boat,  she  insisted,  and  suggested 
"Duilio,"  or"Dandolo,"  or  "Verbano,"  but  in 
vain. 

" It-pleases-me'  is  just  the  name  for  it,  as  it 
does  please  me,"  Dione  always  replied.  "And, 
besides,  no  one  else  has  a  boat  with  that 
name." 

"I  believe  you,  indeed,"  retorted  Cecca,  un 
convinced. 

The  Am-pias-a-mi  was  a  stout  boat,  safe  in 
all  weathers,  with  seats  for  two  rowers  and 
places  for  four  in  the  stern.  She  was  painted  a 
light-gray,  with  her  name  in  white.  Dione  would 
have  dearly  loved  to  have  a  sail-boat,  but  her 
mother  had  shrieked  at  the  idea,  and  even  her 
calm  father  had  objected.  He  thought  that 
feminine  lake,  with  its  changeful  humours  and 
gusts  of  hysteric  passion,  its  sudden  mountain 
hail -storms  and  buffs  of  wind,  coming  no  one 
could  tell  whence  or  why,  no  place  for  a  girl  alone 
to  try  her  skill  at  sailing.  So  the  Am-pias-a-mi 
had  been  the  compromise. 

She  was  moored  rather  close  in,  and  Ping's 
voice,  as  he  bent  up  and  down,  bailing  her  out  (a 
thing  that  he  should  have  done  that  morning  and 
that  filled  Cecca  with  indignation) ,  came  to  them 
clearly  over  the  still  water. 

"Eh,  Sciora  Dione,"  said  he,  "when  are  you 
59 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

going  to  let  me  row  you  to  troll  for  lusc  (pike) 
again?" 

"I  don't  know,  Ping.  I  am  tired  of  fishing  for 
lusc  and  getting  none.  I  believe  the  fishermen 
have  drained  the  lake  of  fish,  fishing,  as  they  do, 
in  and  out  of  season." 

"Eh,  but  the  lusc  are  too  clever  for  them. 
There  has  never  yet  been  made  the  net  that  can 
hold  them  surely.  But  it  is  true,  Sciora,  that 
they  seem  to  be  getting  scarce.  I've  only  caught 
two  myself  so  far." 

Then  he  stood  up  to  ease  his  back,  and  fell  to 
grinning  as  he  rubbed  it. 

"Eh,  but  that  was  a  big  lusc  they  caught  at 
Intra  this  morning,"  said  he. 

' '  What  did  it  weigh  ?  Who  caught  it  ?"  asked 
Dione,  humouring  him.  She  was  as  impatient 
as  Cecca,  but  she  knew  that  to  hurry  Ping  was 
only  to  lose  time. 

"Three  brave  boys  caught  it  with  grapnels,  it 
was  so  big,"  returned  he,  grinning  more  widely 
than  ever.  "It  was  swelled  up  like  a  barrel,  and 
it  stank — Madonna!  how  it  stank!" 

"Sciora,  bid  him  be  silent!"  cried  Cecca,  out 
raged.  "It  is  that  poor  fioeu  (lad),  who  was 
drowned  four  days  ago,  that  he  is  speaking  of. 
The  Madonna  pardon  you  for  using  her  name  in 
that  way,  you  bowelless  ape!"  she  wound  up,  ad 
dressing  Ping. 

"No,  truly,  Sciora  Cecca,  I  meant  no  harm," 
60 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

protested  Ping,  who  really  had  not.  "I  wept 
like  a  baby  when  the  poor  mother  let  out  a  shriek 
that  could  have  been  heard  at  the  Sasso,  and  fell 
back  like  one  dead  on  the  hard  stones.  Do  you 
pardon  me,  Sciora  Dione  ?  I  have  a  rough  tongue, 
perhaps,  but  my  heart  is  as  soft  as  polenta." 

"Certainly,"  said  Dione,  quite  pale.  "I  am 
sure  that  you  meant  no  harm.  But  it  is  not  well 
to  jest  about  such  things.  Please  bring  the  boat 
now,  for  I  have  no  time  to  lose." 

Ping  rowed  in,  using  one  oar  like  a  gondolier, 
and  they  mounted  upon  the  rough  bancheita, 
which  looked  exactly  like  one  of  those  strange, 
straddling  insects  called  "devils'  darning-need 
les." 

Then  Cecca  threw  in  the  red  cushions  which 
she  had  carried  over  one  arm,  and  Dione  stepped 
past  Ping  and  took  the  oars. 

"Good-night!  .  .  .  Good  diversion,  Sciora!" 
called  Ping  after  them. 

Cecca  only  grunted,  but  Dione  said:  "Good 
night,  Ping,  and  thanks." 

"Now,  Gioia,"  said  Cecca,  when  he  had  re- 
entered  the  Osteria  and  closed  the  door,  "you 
are  to  row  me,  if  you  please,  to  that  little  clump 
of  trees  under  the  Villa  Ada,  and  leave  me  there 
while  you  go  on  your  wild  errand.  I  will  do 
much  for  you,  as  I  hope  I  have  proved,  but  even 
with  you  I  will  not  row  over  to  that  bolic  moun 
tain  in  the  dead  of  night." 

61 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Very  well,"  said  Dione.  "But  had  you  not 
rather  go  and  see  some  friend  in  the  village?" 

"And  let  that  witch's  shawl-pin  tell  it  all  over 
the  place  to-morrow  how  I  left  you  to  gad  about 
over  Lago  Maggiore  by  yourself?  Mai  pid!" 
(Not  much!)  replied  Cecca.  "I  have  my  knitting 
and  a  book  of  good  magic  as  well  as  a  prayer- 
book  in  my  pocket,  so  I  am  well  protected.  And 
with  your  leave  I  will  take  this  cushion  to  sit  on, 
and  then  I  shall  have  comfort  also." 

"Do  exactly  as  you  like,  cara.  A  thousand 
thanks  to  you  for  coming  with  me.  Here  we  are 
at  the  Villa  Ada !  Leave  the  basket  there  on  that 
seat  near  me.  Now  .  .  .  Have  you  both  feet 
well  on  the  banchettaf  Ebbene!  Ciao!  ...  I 
shall  be  back  in  about  two  hours." 

"The  Virgin  take  care  of  you,"  said  Cecca, 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  her.  "Ciao, 
Tesoro  mio.  See  that  you  do  nothing  like  magic, 
as  you  have  promised  me." 

"I  shall  do  no  magic  truly,  Cecca  dear.  In 
deed,  I  know  none  to  do." 

"Ebbene,  ciao  ancora,  and  the  Madonna  go  with 
you." 

Dione  left  her  old  nurse  sitting  under  the  clump 
of  acacias,  and,  fixing  her  course  by  the  high 
white  wall  of  the  lower  terrace  of  the  villa,  began 
to  row  toward  the  Sasso  di  Ferro. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

moon  span  high,  like  a  golden  quoit 
1  asleep  with  speed.  The  lake  was  as  still  as 
the  breast  of  a  woman  who  holds  her  breath  un 
der  a  kiss.  From  Stresa  toward  Locarno  the 
pearl-dust  of  the  Milky  Way  swept  in  a  vast  bow. 
The  stars  in  the  heavens  and  the  stars  of  the 
lights  on  Monterone  and  the  lower  hillsides  quiv 
ered  as  with  one  life  in  the  gray  veil  of  the  night. 

Looking  up  at  the  Villa  Ada,  Dione  saw  the 
serried  ivory  columns  of  its  tall  eucalyptus-trees 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight.  Its  cypresses  were 
jets  of  darkness  against  the  spangled  air.  Little 
Ghiffa,  to  her  right,  glowed  like  a  flight  of  fire 
flies  blown  out  along  the  water;  to  her  left  was 
Intra,  another  swarm,  strung  into  a  necklace  as 
by  a  wanton  child,  then  cast  glimmering  upon 
the  shore. 

She  turned  and  looked  over  her  shoulder. 
Dark,  silent,  menacing,  promising,  Pan's  Moun 
tain  dozed  upon  its  shadow,  and  this  huge  shadow 
seemed  to  devour  one-half  of  the  whole  splendo 
of  the  lake.  Across  it  one  silver  thread  of  light 
ran  taut  It  seemed  to  Dionc  that  she  could  hear 

63 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

a  sort  of  singing  sound  from  this  silver  thread,  as 
from  the  string  of  a  great  wind-harp. 

She  rowed  on  and  on.  Now  she  seemed  to 
touch  the  edge  of  that  grim  shadow,  but  ever 
it  receded,  and  she  rowed  on  and  on. 

The  sky  throbbed  with  constellations.  Her 
cules  swung  his  glittering  club  across  the  zenith. 
Beyond  darted  the  diamond  head  of  Draco. 
Cygnus  went  wheeling  to  her  left.  She  saw  the 
fiery  crouch  of  Leo,  the  pale  eyes  of  the  Lynx, 
Cassiopeia's  golden  chair  tilting  giddily,  while 
there,  just  over  her  own  mountain,  Ursa  Major 
reared  himself,  as  though  with  blazing  paws  he 
would  box  little  Ceredo  from  the  hilltop. 

Dione,  who  so  seldom  smiled,  smiled  nervously 
at  this  thought. 

"Ecco!"  said  she  to  herself.  "I  must  beware 
of  the  real  'panic'  terror,  for  it  is  just  a  touch  of 
that  very  thing  that  I  am  beginning  to  feel." 

It  was  a  comfort  to  see  Masciett  there  at  her 
feet,  curled  into  a  ball,  with  his  tail  swept  across 
his  nose  like  a  big  white  fox-brush.  Thus  he 
always  slept,  like  the  half -wild  creature  that  he 
was. 

And  now  she  really  touched  the  hem  of  the 
shadow;  she  was  entering  it.  Her  teeth  pressed 
hard  together,  and  a  strange,  cold,  stinging  feel 
ing  brushed  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  turned 
her  head  again.  The  gray  scars  on  the  mountain 
side  were  opening  and  curving  toward  her.  The 

64 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

whole  crest  of  the  mountain  tilted  forward, 
leaned  heavily  on  the  soft  night— a  sleepy  Titan [ 
crushing  the  fair  breast  of  the  nymph  that  he 
had  captured. 

She  rowed  on  and  on,  steadily,  with  long,  even 
strokes,  but  her  heart  beat  hard. 

Now  the  shadow  was  all  about  her.  The  other 
shore  was  faint,  and  far  away—a  little  foam  of 
light  upon  the  distance.  Masciett  growled  in  his 
sleep — a  wolf's  growl.  Then  she  heard  again 
only  the  sound  of  her  oars  in  the  water.  But 
now  she  rowed  more  slowly.  She  knew  how  the 
stone-roots  of  the  mountain  knuckled  into  great 
gnarls  and  juts  about  its  shore — and  again  she 
looked  back  across  her  shoulder.  There,  to  her 
right,  was  the  towering  slab  of  limestone  that  had 
been  rent  from  the  Sasso's  iron  breast  by  some 
spasm  of  Nature  and  hurled  into  the  depths,  to 
stand  upright  as  by  a  miracle.  In  vain  had  the 
Austrians  used  it  for  a  target  in  the  wars  of 
the  Italian  independence.  Scarred  with  cannon- 
shot,  split  from  crown  to  base,  it  still  glowered 
stanchly,  erect,  alert— Pan's  grim  watch-dog. 

She  rested  on  her  oars  for  a  moment,  and  the 
boat  glided  farther  into  the  shadow  with  its  own 
impetus.  The  drops  falling  from  the  lifted 
blades  made  the  sound  of  water  falling  into  a 
well — tanc  .  .  .  tone  .  .  .  tanc.  But  it  was  deeper 
here  than  any  well.  She  recalled  how  a 
sail-boat  had  been  capsized  here  once  by  the 
3  65 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

ricochetting  gusts  that  dart  from  the  Sasso  when 
the  winds  are  high,  and  how  the  divers  from 
Genoa,  who  had  been  sent  for  to  recover  the 
bodies  of  those  drowned,  had  dived  and  dived  in 
vain,  unable  to  reach  any  bottom  because  of  the 
cold  and  pressure  of  the  water  at  those  stark 
depths.  And  the  bodies  were  never  found.  Pan 
kept  what  he  once  held. 

She  made  another  short  stroke  or  two,  then 
held  her  breath  and  listened.  The  mountain 
overbent  her  now.  Its  craggy  base  was  only  a 
few  yards  off.  In  the  dark  caves  and  rifts  she 
could  hear  the  chuckling,  hollow  clack  of  the 
dark  water.  And  she  knew  that  huge  leviathans 
of  rock  crouched  under  her — vast  twisted  limbs 
and  snouts  of  stone,  nuzzling  down  into  the 
liquid  blackness ;  a  humped  back  here  and  there, 
and  sometimes  a  fanged  jaw  with  a  gray  tusk  or 
two  just  rippling  the  surface. 

She  shipped  her  oars  and  waited.  There  was 
a  slight,  sliding  grind.  Her  keel  had  grazed  one 
of  the  monster's  backs.  Up  started  Masciett 
with  his  wolf-snarl. 

"Sta  quikt!"  whispered  Dione,  and  he  lay  down, 
ears  forward.  Another  muffled  grating,  a  jar  or 
two,  and  the  boat  laid  with  her  nose  on  the  bleak 
shore,  fawningly  as  it  were,  like  a  thing  waiting 
for  either  a  rebuff  or  a  caress. 

Dione  sat  perfectly  still,  and  looked  upward. 
She  was  under  a  great  half  cavern  of  slabbed 

66 


limestone.  Above,  a  thick  fell  of  hazel  shrubs 
matted  the  iron  ribs  of  the  mountain  to  its  jagged 
backbone,  and  there  bristled  sparse  and  stiff 
against  the  sky  like  a  wild-boar's  mane.  There 
was  absolutely  no  sound  save  that  hollow,  cluck 
ing  clack  of  water  and  the  clear  fluting  of  a  crick 
et,  little  guardian  of  the  lighted  hearths  of  men, 
astray  in  the  sinister  gloom  of  Pan's  Mountain. 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath,  then  stood  up  in 
the  softly  heaving  boat  that  seemed  breathing 
with  another's  breathing,  and  lifted  the  little 
basket  from  the  seat.  She  drew  another  breath, 
another  still,  then  sent  up  her  strong  young  voice 
in  a  clear  cry : 

11  Evoe!    Pan!     Pan!     Pan!" 

The  dog  started  to  his  feet  and  stood  rigid. 

"Evoe!  Pan!  Pan!  Pan!"  cried  Dione  again. 
Then  once  again:  "Evoe!  .  .  .  Pan!  .  .  .  Pan! 
.  .  .  Pan!"  ' 

Utter  stillness  fell.  Then  suddenly,  down  from 
the  mountain  crest,  sheer  down,  through  scrub 
and  hazel  boughs,  with  the  pattering  noise  of 
little  goat  feet  coming  fast,  a  stone  fell  through 
the  darkness,  fell  and  fell. 

Masciett's  scruff  rose  from  collar  to  tail- 
and,  thrusting  up  his  muzzle,  he  gave  the  quen 
lous,  wavering  cry  of  the  "Wolf  at  fault 

"Sta  quiti!"  breathed  Dione,  fiercely, 
thrust  him  back  with  her  foot  as  he  sot 

come  toward  her, 

67 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Sta  HI"  (Stay  there!)  she  ordered. 

He  stood  motionless,  with  head  low,  tail  droop 
ing,  his  ruff  erect,  his  ears  pricked  forward  like  a 
shape  in  snow. 

Dione,  with  the  basket  on  one  arm,  took  the 
painter  of  the  boat  in  her  other  hand,  and,  poising 
lightly  on  the  bow,  sprang  ashore,  using  as 
stepping-stones  the  wet  knuckles  of  limestone 
that  glistened  between  her  and  the  two-foot  band 
of  shaley  beach.  Then  she  wound  the  painter 
about  a  pointed  rock  and  stood  up. 

The  dog  stayed  like  the  stones  about  him. 
The  cricket  had  ceased  its  fluting.  The  other 
shore  was  so  far  and  dim  that  it  seemed  like  those 
tiny  landscapes  seen  sometimes  against  the  eye 
lids  as  sleep  is  coming. 

Dione  set  the  basket  upon  a  ledge  and  laid 
aside  the  linen  cloth.  She  took  the  little  cup  of 
magnolia  leaves,  and,  feeling  along  the  surface 
of  the  crag,  set  it  in  a  narrow  cleft.  Then  she 
lifted  the  fiasco  of  red  wine,  and,  with  a  deft  turn 
of  her  wrist,  cast  off  the  inch  of  olive-oil  that 
sealed  it. 

Masciett  followed  her  every  movement  with 
quivering  eyes,  but  his  body  never  stirred. 

When  she  had  done  these  things,  Dione  held 
out  her  arms  and  cried  again  to  Pan. 

"Evoe,  great  Pan!"  she  cried.  "See,  I  bring 
thee  offering  of  cream  and  honey,  and  I  pour  thee 
libation  of  pure  red  wine.  Bring  home  my  mate 

68 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

to  me  from  among  all  other  men,  and  grant  that 
our  sons  be  strong  and  wise." 

Then  she  turned  the  slender  neck  of  the  wine- 
flask  toward  the  earth,  and  the  dark  stream 
poured  out  upon  the  rock,  splashing  back  against 
the  hem  of  her  white  gown  and  across  her  instep. 

"Evoe!  Evoe,  Pan!"  she  cried,  as  the  wine 
ran  from  her  hand.  ' ' Out  of  all  the  world,  I  alone 
make  thee  libation.  Grant  my  request." 

Silence,  utter  and  heavy:  the  still  dog;  the 
ominous  lift  of  rock  above  her ;  the  heaving  boat ; 
these  were  the  same,  yet  there  seemed  a  change 
working.  Something  quickened  in  the  dark  air. 

She  felt  her  scalp  tighten  upon  her  head  with 
the  lifting  of  her  hair— a  rill  as  of  cold-fire  poured 
down  her  limbs.  Her  heart  seemed  to  open  and 
shut  within  her  breast,  like  the  wings  of  a  resting 
moth.  She  trembled,  and  at  the  same  moment 
the  dog  howled  again. 

With  shaking  hands  she  loosed  the  painter, 
sprang   into  the   boat,  thrust  off  from   shore. 
The  panic-terror  had  her.  ...  She  seemed 
see  a  dark  shape  stirring  there  on  the  crag  above 
her  to  hear  the  clattering  of  little  hooves 

among  the  stones.  .  .  .  She  thought  that  a  bar h 

of  laughter  followed  her She  thought  that 

the  cruelty  of  the  old  gods  was  in  it.      .  .  J 
came  a  clear  sound  of  piping, 
strayed  cricket?  ...  Was  it  the  reed  of  Pan? 

69 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

.  .  .  Masciett  pressed  close,  and  licked  her  hands 
and  throat  unrebuked.  She  held  him  tight,  and 
they  shivered  together. 

Then  mastering  herself,  shaking  off  the  cling 
ing  terror  as  one  shakes  an  evil  insect  from  one's 
hand,  she  stood  erect  again,  and  as  the  boat 
glided  out  toward  the  shores  where  men  built  and 
bred,  she  lifted  up  her  voice  once  more,  and  hailed 
the  god  who  dwells  alone. 

"Evoe/  Pan!  Pan!  Pan!"  she  cried,  and  this 
time  Echo,  the  beloved  of  Pan,  answered  her, 
so  that  the  whole  dark  mountain  throbbed  to  it, 
and  she  went  forward  in  her  slight  boat  with 
that  once  so  mighty  name  falling  in  a  sleet  of 
sound  about  her  .  Pan!  Pan!  Pan!  . 


CHAPTER  IX 

KENT  was  striding,  as  with  seven-league  boots, 
up  the  mountain-side  toward  Ceredo.  The 
blither  his  mood  the  faster  he  always  walked, 
and  the  peasants  in  San  Maurizio  and  Susello 
looked  after  the  mat  Inglese  and  grinned.  "He 
has  been  lunching  and  has  probably  tried  grappa 
with  his  wine  for  the  first  time,"  they  decided. 

"Yes,  and  it's  a  very  good  thing  that  he  didn't 
plunge  into  the  lake  for  a  swim  on  a  full  belly," 
said  the  dwarf  shoemaker,  who  was  considered 
a  wise  person.  "That  is  what  most  of  them  do. 
Ay,  Santa  Maria!  haven't  I  seen  three  of  'em 
drown  with  my  own  eyes  from  that  foolishness, 
and  one  poor  devil  with  his  wife  calling  to  him 
from  the  terrace  of  the  Ghiffa  Hotel  please  not 
to  make  faces— it  frightened  her.  .  .  .  And  he 
knotted  up  with  cramp  all  the  time,  and  dying 
with  every  swallow  of  water.  .  ,  They  are  cer 
tainly  crazy— the  English.  It  is  no  superstition." 

"No,  it  is  certainly  not  a  superstition,"  agreed 

the  others. 

In  the  mean  time  Kent  had  swept  throut 
Susello,  and  was  out  among  the  vineyards,  hat 


and  coat  tucked  under  arm  and  stick  through 
elbows  behind  him.  His  thin,  blue  cotton  shirt 
was  open  at  the  throat,  his  worn,  white  flannel 
trousers  rolled  high  from  his  ankles.  He  was 
stockingless  in  the  low  cord  shoes  of  the  peasants 
of  the  region,  and  dripping  wet,  and  completely 
happy. 

In  the  pocket  of  his  bundled  coat  there  was  a 
well-digested  sheaf  of  notes.  He  pressed  it  glee 
fully  against  his  side  as  he  thought  of  it.  In  his 
brain  was  an  up-streaming  shower  of  thought- 
sparks,  each  ready  to  blaze  into  full  being  with 
the  first  breath  of  the  spirit  that  waited  on  him. 
He  looked  down  at  the  gleaming,  swarming  val 
ley,  and  laughed;  up  at  the  black-blue  of  the 
cloudless  sky,  and  laughed  again — a  joyful,  sa 
tiate  laugh,  that  yet  had  in  it  no  satiety.  He 
laughed  because  "it  was  so  good  to  be  alive,  by 
God!"  and  because  it  had  occurred  to  him  that 
the  sky  was  like  the  huge  blue  cup  and  the  earth 
like  the  glittering  ball  with  which  he  would  play 
cup-and-ball  in  the  good  game  of  life. 

Yes,  he  was  completely  happy,  and  he  was  not 
in  love,  and,  strangely  enough  for  a  poet,  he  con 
sidered  this  the  most  gorgeous  sort  of  happiness. 
Being  in  love  interfered  with  his  work  and  set  a 
sort  of  mawkishness  in  his  verse,  as  of  honey  that 
has  sugared  and  clogged.  ...  At  least,  such  was 
his  opinion,  and  he  was  a  very  fair  critic  of  his 
own  performance.  Being  happy  in  love,  he 

72 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

thought,  was  something  like  being  a  god  drunk 
on  ambrosia — one  saw  mentally  double.  Being 
happy  in  a  creative  mood  and  out  of  love  was 
like  being  a  god  just  exultant  with  sheer  god 
head.  Besides,  love  had  once  singed  his  wing- 
feathers  to  the  bone. 

His  brow  pinched  into  a  scowl  of  pain  for  an 
instant,  and  he  wrenched  his  chin  upward  as 
though  loosening  something  from  about  his 
throat.  The  sting  passed.  His  sovereign  mood 
sucked  out  the  poison  like  the  staunch  queen  of 
old.  Up  he  strode  toward  Ceredo,  a  king  tow 
ard  the  happy  hut  of  his  incognito. 

He  rounded  a  hillside,  and  Monte  Rosa  leaped 
at  him  in  a  shout  of  white.  The  lake  reeled  off 
below,  a  bobbin  of  silver-blue  flung  from  a  star. 
The  green  web  of  the  forests,  draped  over  cliff 
and  hollow,  seemed  to  sway  listlessly  in  the  thick- 
sweet  breeze. 

"One  can  feel  the  earth  swing  up  here," 
thought  he.  "What  a  glorious  giddiness  .  .  ." 

He  threw  himself  flat  on  the  steaming  grass, 
and,  setting  chin  on  laced  hands,  gazed  down  into 
the  grape-gray  gulfs  of  air.  Then  he  drew  in  his 
vision,  and  became  absorbed  in  the  swarming  life 
about  him.  It  was  like  looking  into  the  green 
hair  of  Goddess  Nature,  tricked  out  with  little 
glistening,  living  ornaments. 

A  June  beetle,  more  gorgeous  than  an  emer 
ald,  and  lacquered  with  brown-gold,  made  fool- 

73 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

ish  attempts  to  walk  with  dignity  along  a  supple 
blade  of  grass.  Ever  he  tried,  and  ever  the  blade 
bent  as  he  reached  its  tip,  and  stood  him  on  his 
silly,  burnished  head. 

An  ant,  the  color  of  cochineal,  went  up  a  weed 
and  down  the  other  side,  and  up  another  and 
down  the  other  side,  thus  progressing  in  a  straight 
line,  but  defying  Euclid,  and  not  making  it  the 
shortest  way  between  two  given  points. 

' '  Silly  soul, ' '  Kent  said  to  her.  ' '  And  why  do 
you  carry  that  great  gauze  wing  in  your  jaws  ? 
.  .  .  Gauze  is  not  good  to  eat.  .  .  .  And  the  ant 
queen  doesn't  wear  gowns." 

Then  a  small  Italian  katydid,  opening  its  green 
mouth  on  either  side  and  showing  a  pink  lining 
like  a  fig's,  fixed  his  attention. 

"By  Jove!"  cried  he,  softly,  after  watching  it 
a  moment.  "It  is  'doing'  its  front  hair,  like  a 
woman!" 

Slowly  the  "katy,"  with  its  oblong  head  and 
pink-topaz  eyes  that  looked  impartially  on  either 
side  at  once,  took  one  of  its  long,  blond  antennae 
in  its  little  fore  feet  and  drew  it  out  to  its  full 
length.  It  then  waved  it  once  or  twice,  and  laid 
it  along  its  back  as  though  satisfactorily  smooth. 
It  next  arranged  the  other  antenna.  It  then  con 
sidered  a  moment,  and,  poising  itself  nicely  on 
some  of  its  legs,  curled  up  its  oat-green  body  and 
proceeded  to  clean  it  as  a  cat  cleans  hers.  It 
then  stretched  far  out  one  hinged  hind  leg,  drew 

74 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

it  musingly  through  its  fig-like  mouth,  and 
propped  it  up  again.  It  went  through  this  same 
proceeding  with  the  other.  Then  it  chewed  a 
neat  semicircle  out  of  a  young  leaf  of  the  vine  on 
which  it  was  balanced,  and  vibrating  the  little 
triangular  cape  of  brown  gauze  just  back  of  its 
head,  emitted  a  loud  "chirring"  noise  which 
lasted  for  about  a  minute.  It  then  considered 
again,  and  suddenly,  with  a  violent  burst  of  reso 
lution,  flew  straight  into  Kent's  interested  face. 

"Then  you  don't  do  it  with  your  hind  legs, 
after  all?"  asked  he,  gently  straddling  it  upon 
the  vine  once  more.  "Lord!  Lord!  .  .  .  What 
a  sense  of  humor  went  to  your  making,  my  small 
green  friend." 

He  lay  on  his  face  for  a  few  minutes  more,  then 
turned  over  and  sprawled  luxuriously,  staring  up 
into  the  air  until  tiny  globules  of  crystal  seemed 
to  rise  and  rise  before  his  eyes  like  the  bubbles 
in  an  enchanted  and  invisible  goblet  of  wine.  He 
was  so  very  happy  that  he  had  to  dawdle.  One 
must  not  get  to  one's  Ceredo  and  a  summer  of 
brimming,  golden  work  too  soon.  It  is  wisdom 
to  loiter  on  the  way.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  all  wis 
dom  to  stay  one's  feet  on  the  staircase  of  creative 

joy. 

"Scribble,  scribble,  scribble  .  .  .  scribble, 
scribble,  scribble,"  thought  Kent,  enjoying  his 
lonely,  wise-foolishness  to  the  last  atom  of  his 
blood.  "I  can  see  the  little  black  lace  of  words 

75 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

spinning  out  on  the  page  now.  .  .  .  O  man,  but 
it  is  a  queer  miracle  you  are,  and  as  droll  as  the 
little  green  grasshopper,  to  take  your  highest  joy 
in  such  a  thing  as  that!  And  to  think  of  the 
chaps  who  dictate  and  thump  things  out  on  a 
typewriter!" 

With  this  he  leaped  to  his  feet  again,  and  swung 
on  up  the  mountain. 

Little  Ceredo,  among  its  fields,  like  a  pretty, 
pale  girl  with  red  hair  and  a  green  frock,  he  took 
to  his  heart  at  once.  His  padrona  was  a  slight, 
dusky  woman  with  the  feathery,  line-like  eye 
brows,  and  broad-lidded  eyes  set  wide  apart,  that 
one  sees  in  Luini's  frescoes.  She  spoke  to  him 
with  an  unaccustomed  tongue,  in  stilted  Italian, 
and  showed  him  to  his  room  with  many  gentle 
excuses  for  its  simplicity.  Kent  loved  it  and  her 
at  once.  He  thanked  her  so  enthusiastically  that 
her  clear  brown  cheek  flared  like  an  autumn  pear. 

"E  molto  bravo — molto  simpatico,"  she  told  her 
son  when  she  went  down  again.  "He  is  without 
doubt  a  scior  (gentleman)." 

And  Kent  was  saying  to  himself: 

"I  must  pick  up  the  dialect  as  fast  as  I  can,  to 
talk  with  these  delightful  people.  I  can't  stand 
that  peg-legged  Italian  they  use.  It's  as  if  that 
dear  little  soul  were  moving  about  me  on  gold 
stilts." 

For  he  had  a  passion  for  dialects,  as  coming 
near  to  the  bone  and  core  of  things,  besides  know- 

76 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

ing  Italian  almost  as  well  as  he  did  English.  He 
had  spent  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life  in  Florence 
with  his  mother  and  a  series  of  tutors,  for  he  had 
been  a  somewhat  trying  boy.  Afterward  there 
had  been  a  private  school  in  England,  and  then 
Oxford.  Unlike  most  poets,  he  had  graduated 
with  distinction  from  his  University. 

His  little  room,  smelling  of  whitewash  and 
fresh  linen,  and  opening  onto  a  balcony  arustle 
with  leaves,  pleased  him  mightily.  He  stood  and 
smiled  at  the  glazed  print  of  the  Virgin  over  his 
bed.  She  was  a  hooded  lady  all  in  blue  and 
pink,  with  an  aura  of  gold  spikes  from  crown  to 
toe,  and  she  stood  with  demure  eyes,  downcast, 
balanced  nicely  upon  the  head  of  a  little  boy- 
angel  in  a  crescent  that  looked  both  hard  and 
sharp. 

"I'm  sure  that  dear  Luini  person  took  this 
from  the  head  of  her  own  bed  to  hang  over  mine," 
mused  he. 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  then  went  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  saw 
the  mountain-side  tumbling  beneath  him 
to  the  lake,  and,  beyond,  the  implacable  Stone 
of  Iron. 

He  gazed  at  it  for  some  moments  in  silence. 
Then  he  said  aloud: 

"Hail,  Dante!  .  .  .  For  that  mountain  was 
surely  made  in  your  image,  and  in  your  likeness." 

He  swept  the  lake  with  his  eyes:  laughing 
Stresa  to  the  right,  and  the  glistening  Borromean 
Isles  drifting  on  the  delicate  water,  like  great 
Brazilian  beetles  blown  out  from  land.  To  the 
left,  Cannero  Castle  on  yet  another  island,  and 
the  already  purpling  peaks  toward  Switzerland. 
Then  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  Sasso. 

"Salute!"  said  he.  "You  look  like  a  Behe 
moth  dozing  after  a  gorge  of  pterodactyls  or 
ichthyosaurs,  or  some  of  those  grim  fowls." 
[Kent's  knowledge  of  biology  was  of  the  haziest.] 
"Or,  no;  the  Behemoth  was  a  sort  of  huge  tapir, 
I  believe,  and  the  other  creatures  reptiles"  [this 
much  did  come  back  to  him].  "You  are  more 
like  Leviathan  asleep  for  the  time  being,  .  .  . 

"   78 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

'Canst  them  draw  out  Leviathan  with  a  hook? 
...  or  bore  his  jaw  through  with  a  thorn  ?  . 
Will  he  make  many  supplications  unto  thee? 
Will  he  speak  soft  words  unto  thee?  Will  he 
make  a  covenant  with  thee?  Wilt  thou  play 
with  him  as  with  a  bird  ?  Or  wilt  thou  bind  him 
for  thy  maidens  ?'  ...  No,  I  should  not  like  to 
make  a  covenant  with  you.  You  would  be  apt 
to  open  your  stone  jaws  and  crunch  me  whole 
by  way  of  keeping  it.  As  for  binding  you  for  a 
maiden,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  giving  her  the 
Minotaur  to  play  with.  .  .  .  By  Jove!  You  are 
rather  an  overpowering  vis-h-vis  to  breakfast  and 
lunch  and  dine  with.  I  shall  have  to  pour  you 
a  propitiatory  libation  before  I  dare  drink  my 
wine  at  meals,  for  this  balcony  is  to  be  my  dining- 
room,  O  monster,  even  if  I  do  have  to  sit  with 
the  hind  legs  of  my  chair  over  the  threshold." 

He  gazed  at  the  mountain  a  while  longer. 
There  seemed  to  float  from  it  a  silent  force  that 
held  him  oddly.  Then  he  ran  down-stairs  to  con 
sult  his  padrona  and  her  big  son  Pedring  about 
the  coming  of  his  luggage. 

"It  started  from  Intra  at  a  good  hour  this 
morning,  Signore,"  said  Pedring.  "It  should  be. 
here  at  any  moment." 

And,  in  fact,  as  he  was  speaking,  a  cart  with 
a  big  gray  horse  hove  in  sight,  and  beside  it  a 
stout,  broad-backed  woman,  chattering  shrilly 
to  the  driver  as  she  walked,  doubled  over  be- 

79 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

neath  Kent's  summer  supply  of  books.  These, 
in  their  two  oblong  cases,  she  carried  on  her  back 
in  a  rectangular  basket,  such  as  the  Indians  of  Ala 
bama  use  for  carrying  kindling-wood  and  papooses. 

Kent  bestowed  upon  driver  and  woman  tips 
which  agreed  with  their  preconceived  ideas  of  the 
foolish  generosity  of  the  Inglesi.  Then,  with  Ped- 
ring's  help,  he  got  his  belongings  up-stairs,  and 
spent  the  afternoon  in  arranging  his  quarters. 
The  room  that  had  been  given  him  to  sleep  in 
he  turned  into  a  study  because  of  the  balcony, 
and  the  other,  at  the  side  of  the  house,  he  took 
for  his  bedroom.  He  was  very  orderly  at  the  be 
ginning  of  a  creative  epoch,  so  it  took  him  until 
seven  o'clock  to  get  settled.  At  that  hour,  upon 
a  little  green  table  on  the  balcony,  with  the  "hind 
legs"  of  his  chair,  as  he  had  foreseen,  straddling 
the  threshold,  he  partook  of  a  large  bowl  of  pasta 
asciutta  al  porno  d'oro,  a  salad  of  big  green  pep 
pers  and  cucumbers,  some  gorgonzola,  such  as 
one  cannot  get  even  in  Milan,  some  cherries  that 
looked  like  little  apples  and  smelled  of  honey, 
and  a  bottle  of  the  light,  silken  wine  of  Solcio, 
which  his  padrona's  brother  sent  her  as  a  pres 
ent  every  year. 

"I  drink  to  you,  O  Dark  One,"  said  he,  gravely, 
as  he  finished  this  excellent  repast,  lifting  his 
glass  toward  the  Sasso.  "Pray  do  not  frown  at 
me  like  that.  ...  I  will  even  make  libation  to 
you,  as  I  said." 

80 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

And  he  flung  out  the  last  drops  into  the  clear 
air  toward  the  mountain. 

Then  joyous,  content,  "friends"  with  himself 
and  all  the  world,  atingle  with  the  necessity  for 
movement,  he  lit  his  best  beloved  brier  out  of 
eight,  and,  catching  up  his  stick,  went  hatless  out 
into  the  dusk  for  one  of  those  nocturnal  prowls 
dear  to  wood  things  and  to  poets. 

He  walked  at  random,  striking  out  of  the  vil 
lage  and  up  the  mountain-side,  with  a  gay 
"Buona  sera"  for  every  man,  woman,  child,  and 
cur  that  he  met.  Soon  he  was  off  the  highroad. 
The  vineyard  closed  about  him.  The  sweet  pang 
of  crushed  wild  thyme  and  mint  shot  through  his 
nostrils.  Then  came  a  dizzying  gush  of  honey 
suckle.  "Oh,  you  are  like  the  breath  of  one's 
first  love!  .  .  .  You  go  sharp  to  one's  head  ..." 
said  he  aloud,  in  the  way  he  had.  "Lord! 
What  a  night !  .  .  .  One  wrould  think  that  Satan 
invented  Eden  and  not  God.  .  .  .  Night,  you 
are  a  treacherous  minx.  .  .  .  And  when  you  come 
with  woodbine  in  your  hair  like  this,  you  are 
nothing  less  than  the  Scarlet  Woman,  with  your 
red  gown  seeming  sober  in  the  moonlight.  ...  I 
don't  like  these  little  tingles  in  my  blood.  .  .  . 
They  presage  evil.  ...  I  won't  look  again  at 
that  glow  where  the  lady  moon  is  coming  up.  .  .  . 
The  train  of  associations  is  too  disastrous.  .  .  . 
I'll  think  in  German,  where  the  moon  is  'he.' 
.  .  .  Verily,  I  believe  I'm  a  little  tipsy.  ..." 
6  81 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

And  he  stopped  to  knock  out  his  pipe  against 
a  stone  wall,  and  laughed  softly  at  the  idea,  for 
his  head  was  metal  where  wine  was  concerned. 

As  he  pocketed  his  pipe,  and  looked  up,  the 
wall  itself  took  his  attention ;  it  was  so  high,  so 
old,  so  moss-and-wild-flower  grown — such  plumy, 
caressing  foliage  waved  over  its  gray  top. 

"I'll  climb  you!"  said  he.  "There!  .  .  .  You 
dared  me  to,  you  know.  ..."  And  he  was  on 
the  other  side. 

Though  the  moon -glow  quickened  the  dark 
air,  he  could  see  but  dimly  where  he  was.  Cool 
leaves  slapped  his  face  with  a  trick  as  of  provoca 
tive,  light  finger- touches,  little  supple  branches 
sprang  against  him,  a  great  festoon  of  honey 
suckle  caught  him  across  the  lips.  He  kissed  at 
it,  laughing  again.  "Musky  wanton!"  said  he. 

Then  he  won  through  into  a  little  glade,  and, 
as  the  breeze  veered,  heard  the  vibrant  sound  of 
water  coming  down  into  a  pool  from  a  great 
height. 

"A  mountain  pool!  ...  A  plunge  by  star 
light  in  this  air.  .  .  .  ' 

He  pressed  toward  the  sound,  eager,  aquiver 
for  the  cold  clasp  of  water  about  his  bare 
limbs,  already  loosening  his  collar  as  he  went. 
But  two  yards  farther  he  stopped  short,  taking 
a  quick  step  backward.  There  below  him,  in  its 
cup  of  ferny,  wood-clad  rocks,  lay  the  pool,  dark 
and  clear,  like  a  magic  mirror  fed  by  the  white 

82 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

foam  of  a  cascade.  It  was  not  the  sheer  fall  of 
the  bank  that  had  arrested  him,  however,  but  so 
strange  a  glimpse,  as  behind  the  witched  veil  of 
night — so  strange  a  gleam  as  from  the  old,  lovely, 
not-to-be-believed-in  world  of  naiads  and  hama 
dryads — that  he  thought  for  an  instant  the  wine 
was  truly  in  his  brain.  ...  He  stood  throbbing, 
his  breath  held. 

"Pst!"  came  a  sharp  whisper.  Then  again: 
"Pst!  Pst!"  As  he  stood  bemused,  with  a 
crackling  sound  there  leaped  toward  him  from 
the  underbrush  a  white  wolf  with  lifted  lip  and 
fangs  shining. 

Three  bounds  took  Kent  back  again  over  the 
high  wall.  He  heard  the  wolf -thing  leap  scrab 
bling  against  the  stones.  .  .  .  Incontinently  he 
turned  and  fled,  higher  and  higher,  through  vine 
yards,  across  fields,  over  ditches,  across  a  stream. 
.  .  .  Breathless  at  last,  he  threw  himself  down 
upon  a  hillside. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  he,  and  took  his  head  be 
tween  both  hands  as  though  to  steady  it.  ... 
"Good  Lord!"  .  .  .  What  he  had  seen  was  the 
flash  of  a  white  arm  and  flank  out  of  the  spray, 
delicate  yet  distinct  as  the  trace  that  a  falling 
star  leaves  on  the  dark  air. 


CHAPTER   XI 

SIGNORA  CIELO,"  said  Kent  the  next 
morning,  when  his  padrona  came  to  bring 
him  his  breakfast  (her  lovely  name  was  Laura 
Cielo),  "my  dear  Signora,  I  fear  that  the  delicious 
wine  that  your  brother  sends  you  from  Solcio  is 
very  strong  indeed." 

"But  no,  Signore.  Truly,"  protested  she,  "it 
is  so  light  that  a  babe  might  suck  it  from  the 
bottle  and  not  be  injured." 

"Strange,"  said  Kent,  musingly.  "Have  you 
any  witches  about  here?" 

"Witches,  Signore?" 

She  looked  troubled,  and  "made  horns"  be 
hind  her  back. 

"Yes,  witches  .  .  .  fairies  .  .  .  enchanted  per 
sons." 

"About  fairies  I  never  heard,  Signore.  As  for 
witches" — her  fingers  were  firmly  set  in  the  sign 
against  evil — "the  Signore  must  know  how  ig 
norant  people  talk  in  all  quarters  of  the  world." 

"Ah!  ...  So  there  are  witches,  then  .  .  . 
white  witches,  I  hope?" 

"Scusi,  Signore;  but  the  Signore  will  please 
84 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

taste  this  butter  before  I  go,  and  tell  me  if  it  is 
quite  fresh." 

She  set  before  him  the  little  pot  of  old  Lodi-ware 
with  its  posy  of  orange  nasturtiums  stuck  through 
the  handle,  and  became  very  busy,  laying  the 
green  table  on  the  balcony  with  honey,  fresh  eggs, 
rye-bread,  cream,  and  smoking  coffee  that  had  no 
chiccory  in  it.  Laura  Cielo  prided  herself  upon 
her  coffee. 

"So  you  do  not  wish  to  talk  about  it?"  asked 
Kent,  after  tasting  the  butter  as  requested,  and 
saying  that  he  was  sure  that  it  was  made  of 
cream  skimmed  from  the  Milky  Way,  so  en 
tirely  heavenly  was  it. 

Laura  smiled,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  is  as  well  not  to  begin  the  day  with  such 
talk,"  said  she. 

"Very  well,"  said  Kent.  "There  can  be  no 
objection,  T  suppose,  to  my  asking  the  name  of 
that  very  imposing  mountain  opposite?" 

"The  Signore  is  merry  this  morning,"  said 
Laura,  with  her  soft,  indulgent  smile  of  the  born 
mother.  "My  Pedring  is  always  gay  in  the 
morning  also.  It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  the 
health,  .  .  .  and  for  the  wives  and  mothers,"  she 
added,  slyly.  Then,  becoming  serious  again: 
"That  mountain,  Signore,  is  called  the  Stone  of 
Iron.  It  is  not  friendly  to  men,  I  believe.  There 
is  one  small  village  on  the  other  side  called  Vara- 
ro.  We  believe  it  to  be  so  called  because  people 

85 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

go  there  so  rarely.  But  perhaps  that  is  only 
fancy.  It  has  eaten  several  men,  that  mountain. 
.  .  .  Brutta  bestial"  (Ugly  beast!)  said  she,  ad 
dressing  it.  "Only  last  year  a  poor  fellow  rolled 
from  its  top  onto  the  rocks  and  was  schiscia 
(smashed)  .  .  .  just  spattered  about,"  she  ended 
with  an  expressive  gesture. 

They  both  regarded  it  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"I  see  no  particular  use  in  the  world  for  a 
mountain  like  that,  do  you,  Signora?"  asked 
Kent  at  last. 

"God,  who  made  it,  alone  can  tell,"  answered 
she.  "But,  after  all,  those  hazel  bushes  that 
cover  it  make  good  charcoal.  They  belong  to  the 
Ospedale  Maggiore,  in  Milan,  I  am  told.  See 
where  the  wood-cutters  have  cleared  this  year. 
.  .  .  That  long  stripe,  like  a  stocking  hung  up  to 
dry.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  hazel  wood  on  it  is  of  use." 

"Hazel  wood  is  also  good  against  witches,  isn't 
it?"  said  Kent,  mischievously.  But  Laura  only 
shook  her  head  at  him  with  another  smile,  and 
made  her  escape. 

"And  now,"  said  Kent,  after  his  postprandial 
pipe,  with  a  long,  long  stretch,  and  wriggle  of 
ennui — "now  for  a  call  on  the  Signora  Pupin  or 
Rupin  or  whatever  her  name  is  ...  who  got  me 
these  jolly  lodgings." 

He  took  Varoni's  letter  of  introduction  from 
his  pocket  and  regarded  it  with  much  distaste. 

"'An'   'twere  done,  'twere  well   'twere  done 
86 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

quickly,'"  said  he  at  last.  "I'll  take  one  more 
day  of  loafing,  and  then  for  Leonardo  and  the 
Lady  Lisa!" 

Pedring  pointed  out  to  him  the  nearest  way  to 
Vareggio,  which  was  not  far  at  best,  and,  having 
attired  himself  properly  in  a  fresher  suit  of  white 
flannels,  he  betook  himself  to  pay  his  duty  call. 

The  way  that  Pedring  had  directed  him  did 
not  lead  him  to  the  old  iron  gate,  but  to  a  small 
wicket  set  higher  up  in  a  stone  wall.  The  height 
of  this  wall  and  its  drapery  of  moss  and  wild 
flowers  made  Kent  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 
He  looked  back  at  it  as  he  went  down  the 
steep  path  among  thick  growths  of  birch  and 
poplar.  Then  he  stopped  short,  as  on  the  night 
before.  .  .  .  The  high,  vibrant  song  of  water 
falling  from  a  great  height  into  a  pool  had  caught 
his  ear. 

"This  is  interesting,"  thought  he,  with  his  low, 
self -communing  laugh.  "I  wonder  if  ...  but  no 
—never  lady  of  the  name  of  Pupin  or  Rupin 
bathed  like  a  dryad  in  a  mountain  pool  by  star 
light." 

He  arrived  at  the  house,  took  a  lazy  glance  at 
the  view,  and  rang  the  door-bell. 

Cecca  opened  to  him,  smelling  of  sweet,  mar 
joram  and  thyme,  which  she  had  been  preparing, 
and  with  her  best  headkerchief  somewhat  hastily 
assumed,  and  showing  a  lock  of  her  iron-gray 
hair.  The  Signora  and  the  Signorina  were  both 

87 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

absent,  it  pained  her  to  say.  Would  the  Signore 
leave  the  letter  with  her?  Would  he  have  a 
little  Marsala  or  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  almond- 
cakes  made  with  honey?  The  Signore  thanked 
her  a  thousand  times,  but  he  had  just  breakfasted 
to  repletion,  and,  yes,  he  thought  that  he  would 
leave  the  letter  with  her,  and  also  a  thousand 
regrets.  Just  at  this  point  Cecca  tossed  up  her 
hands  with  a  despairing  gesture,  and  said  "Ma 
donna  mia!"  and  Kent,  turning  hastily,  came 
face  to  face  with  Dione.  It  was  Dione's  costume 
that  had  caused  Cecca  to  call  upon  the  Virgin, 
and  for  a  moment  Dione,  who  had  rounded  the 
corner  of  the  house  without  dreaming  that  there 
could  be  a  visitor  at  this  early  hour,  was  some 
what  uncomfortable  herself.  Then  she  came  for 
ward,  and  said,  in  her  clear,  composed  young 
voice : 

"Good-morning,  Signore.  My  mother  is  away 
to-day.  I  see  that  you  have  a  letter.  Can  I  be 
of  service?" 

Kent  did  not  observe  her  closely  at  first.  He 
was  staring  at  Masciett,  who,  erecting  his  scruff 
slightly,  stood  and  gazed  back  at  him. 

"He  is  not  dangerous  .  .  .  unless  I  wish  him 
to  be,"  said  Dione,  mistaking  the  young  man's 
fixed  look  for  one  of  apprehension. 

"He  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Kent,  recovering 
himself.  Then  he  told  her  who  he  was,  and  ex 
plained  his  errand. 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"The  mamma  will  be  very  sorry  to  have  missed 
you,"  said  Dione,  politely.  "If  you  care  to  stay 
a  little  while,  Cecca  will  bring  you  some  Marsala 
and  almond-cakes." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  but  I  have  just  break 
fasted,"  said  Kent  again. 

"Surely,"  said  Dione.  "I  think  it  a  very 
stupid  custom  myself,  but  one  is  supposed  to 
keep  it.  Shall  we  sit  out  here,  or  do  you  prefer 
to  come  into  the  salottino?" 

"Signorina!  ...  On  such  a  morning?"  ex 
claimed  Kent. 

"Yes,  ...  it  would  be  a  pity,"  said  Dione,  and 
she  caught  in  a  few  more  ruffled  locks  with  one 
of  the  two  big  silver  hair-pins  that  held  them. 

Kent,  without  seeming  to  watch  her,  had  now 
taken  in  every  detail  of  her  costume  and  ap 
pearance. 

She  had  been  to  wash  Masciett  in  the  pool,  and 
he  shone  like  a  thing  of  spun  mica,  though  he 
was  now  taking  mad,  skating  slides,  head  down, 
along  the  gravel,  in  the  natural  dog -desire  to 
rub  off  the  edge  of  his  cleanness. 

"Masciett,  va!  Via!"  said  Dione,  and  she 
waved  him  imperiously  onto  the  grass. 

At  the  same  time  that  she  bathed  him  she  had 
shaken  her  hair  about  in  the  spray  from  the  cas 
cade.  It  was  still  frosted  with  moisture,  and 
had  left  a  dark  patch  on  the  shoulders  of  her 
green  linen  gown.  This  gown — shortened  with 

89 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

two  large  shield-pins,  which  she  now  began 
leisurely  to  unclasp — left  exposed  her  fine  round 
ankles  and  the  long  sweep  of  her  bare  insteps, 
rising  stockingless  from  the  black  wooden  zoccoli 
or  peasants'  pattens,  with  which  she  was  shod. 
Her  slim  toes,  even  and  faintly  pink  *as  a  row  of 
pale  honeysuckle  buds,  escaped  from  the  side  bits 
of  red  leather  laced  over  them,  and  gleamed  wet 
and  fresh  in  the  sunlight. 

She  did  not  draw  in  her  feet  under  the  hem  of 
her  gown  when  she  sat  down  at  last  to  talk  with 
Kent,  but  left  them  calmly  where  they  would 
have  rested  had  they  been  clad  in  the  smartest  of 
smart  shoes. 

As  she  pulled  down  her  sleeves  which  had  been 
rolled  back  over  her  long,  beautifully  tapering 
arms,  Kent's  eyes  followed  the  pure  line  to  the 
tips  of  the  chiselled  fingers  with  their  clear, 
delicate  nails. 

"No,  dear  Signora  Laura,"  thought  he,  "it 
was  not  your  good  wine  of  Solcio  that  was  too 
strong.  And  my  Muse  and  I  have  one  secret 
at  least,  between  us,  which  the  world  will  never 
hear." 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  CANNOT  take  my  eyes  from  your  dog," 
he  then  said,  watching  Masciett,  who, 
piqued  by  some  strange  sound  in  the  valley  be 
low,  had  reared  himself  up  with  both  forepaws 
on  the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  thus  showing  the 
splendid  outline  of  his  deep  girth  and  tucked-up 
waist  to  perfection.  "What  breed  of  dog  is  he? 
And  what  does  his  name  mean  ?  It  is  dialect,  I 
suppose." 

Dione  told  him  the  ancestry  of  Masciett,  and 
explained  his  name. 

"Yes,  it  is  dialect,"  said  she,  "and  it  means 
'Little  Male.'  .  .  .  My  father  named  him.  He 
did  not  like  sentimental  names  for  animals." 

"It  suits  him  perfectly,"  said  Kent.  "I  should 
like  to  know  this  dialect.  It  seems  so  crisp,  and 
packed  with  idiom.  I  suppose  you  speak  it  very 
well,  Signorina?" 

"Yes.  All  children  here  speak  dialect  before 
Italian.  They  learn  it  from  their  balie  (wet- 
nurses).  As  you  say,  it  is  very  expressive.  But 
it  differs  slightly  with  every  place.  In  Stresa  it 
is  already  different  from  what  it  is  in  Ghifla. 
And  the  Milanese  is  again  different." 

91 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"But  only  slightly  so,  is  it  not?  My  friend, 
Gigino  Varoni,  I've  heard  speak  it  with  others, 
of  course,  but  I've  never  stopped  in  Milan  till 
this  spring,  and  he  always  speaks  Italian  with 
me." 

"Yes,  a  word  here  and  there — the  pronuncia 
tion." 

"I  must  learn  it,"  said  Kent.  "I  shall  begin 
with  Pedring  to-day." 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  learn,  it  seems  to  me," 
said  Dioiie.  "But  perhaps  you  have  a  talent  for 
languages?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Kent,  with 
his  gay  smile.  "I've  a  knack  at  dialects,  though. 
I  can  hobnob  with  the  gondoliers  in  their  own 
patois  like  a  native." 

"You  have  been  much  in  Italy?" 

"I  lived  in  Florence  until  I  was  ten.  And 
since  I  was  twenty-three  I've  been  six  months  in 
Italy  every  year  of  my  life." 

"You  like  it?" 

"It  is  my  dear  balia  that  I  love  along  with  my 
own  mother." 

"Sometimes  one  loves  one's  balia  more  than 
one's  mother." 

"Well,  it  is  a  very  close  thing,  I  confess,"  said 
Kent,  smiling  again. 

"She  seems  rather  commonplace,"  he  thought; 
"yet  she  can't  be,  with  that  odd,  striking  face. 
I  wonder  if  she  is  beautiful?  Somehow  I  can't 

92 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

make  up  my  mind.  Her  body  is  certainly  beau 
tiful.  And  she  has  something  fateful  about  her 
.  .  .  like  one  of  the  Parcas  when  they  were 
young  .  .  .  Atropos,  I  think.  I  can  fancy  her, 
under  certain  circumstances,  snicking  three-fold 
cords,  with  those  black  brows  of  hers  bent  in  a 
bow,  and  that  mouth  set  thin  and  hard  as  the  lip 
of  a  shell.  .  .  .  She  isn't  the  least  like  an  Italian 
girl  ...  all  Slav,  I  should  say.  Or  no,  per 
haps  just  a  dash  of  the  Latin  to  give  her  that 
strange  air.  ..." 

Dione  was  sitting  perfectly  still,  with  one  arm 
thrown  out  along  the  parapet,  and  her  forceful, 
irregular  profile  turned  toward  him.  Her  face 
was  in  shadow,  and  out  of  this  shadow  her  vivid 
mouth  gleamed  with  a  certain  violence  of  con 
trast.  It  was  not  madder  or  crimson  like  the 
mouths  of  most  women,  but  a  golden  scarlet,  like 
rose-hips  in  winter. 

"She  can't  be  commonplace,"  concluded  Kent, 
"it's  impossible.  I  wonder  what  she's  thinking 
now  ?  Nothing  that  she'll  speak  of,  I'll  warrant." 

Dione  was  looking  at  the  Sasso,  and  thinking 
of  Pan  and  her  invocation  of  him.  It  was  not 
likely  that  she  would  mention  this  to  Kent.  She 
was  also  thinking  that  Kent  was  the  first  real 
man,  according  to  her  idea  of  a  man,  that  she 
had  ever  seen  except  her  father.  It  was  still 
more  unlikely  that  she  would  mention  this.  She 
was  also  wondering  if  he  could  be  the  "mate  from 

93 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

among  all  other  men"  that  she  had  asked  Pan 
to  send  her,  for  she  was  not  sure  that  she  liked 
him.  She  had  a  queer  impulse  to  spring  up  and 
leave  him,  and  go  far  and  fast  in  the  opposite  di 
rection.  This  she  thought  strange,  as  people 
generally  left  her  completely  indifferent.  She 
did  not  know  that  she  was  experiencing  the 
primitive  recoil  of  the  woman  in  presence  of  the 
man  destined  to  dominate.  These  last  reflec 
tions,  least  of  all,  was  she  likely  to  confide  to 
their  subject. 

"Is  it  very  gay  in  Intra?  Do  you  go  out  a 
great  deal  to  balls  and  parties  of  all  sorts,  Sig- 
norina?"  said  Kent  at  last. 

"No,"  said  Dione.     "I  do  not  like  them." 

"You  do  not  like  to  dance?  But,  with  per 
mission,  you  are  made  to  dance,  Signorina." 

"If  one  could  dance  by  one's  self  it  might  be 
pleasant,"  said  Dione;  "but  to  dance  with  men, 
on  the  top  of  whose  heads  one  looks  down,  that 
is  not  agreeable  at  all." 

Kent  laughed  out. 

"You  are  certainly  very  tall  for  an  Italian 
young  lady,  Signorina,  and  that  is  the  truth," 
said  he. 

"Are  the  young  girls  in  England  so  very  tall, 
then?" 

"As  tall  as  I  am,  some  of  them." 

"I  should  not  like  to  be  as  tall  as  you 
are." 

94 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Certainly  not.  It  would  be  much  too  tall  for 
a  woman." 

"But  it  is  not  for  a  man,"  said  Dione,  de 
cidedly.  "May  I  ask  how  tall  you  are?" 

' '  Six  feet  two  and  a  half  inches — without  my 
shoes,  to  be  precise,"  said  Kent,  much  amused. 
"I  don't  know  how  to  put  it  into  metres,  as  I 
was  never  able  to  master  my  multiplication-table. ' ' 

"I  could  never  learn  arithmetic  either,  though 
my  father  worked  over  me  with  great  patience." 

"Then  there  is  one  taste,  at  least,  that  we  have 
in  common,"  said  Kent,  gayly. 

"It  is  not  a  taste  with  me,"  returned  Dione; 
"it  is  just  a  lack." 

"Oh,"  thought  Kent,  "is  it  possible  that  she  is 
literal?" 

Then  he  reflected  that  there  must  be  some 
method  of  "getting  at"  the  real  girl,  under  the 
husk  of  convention.  "Let's  see  what  she  reads 
—if  she  reads, ' '  he  told  himself.  ' '  Well,  if  you  do 
not  care  for  society,  you  must  read  a  great  deal, 
do  you  not  ?"  he  said  aloud. 

Dione  gave  him  a  fleet,  brushing  glance.  "I 
have  read  /  Promessi  Sposi,"  said  she. 

"Naturally,"  said  Kent.  "It  is  a  famous 
novel.  And  then?" 

"I  have  read  Picciola  and—  She  paused  to 
remember;  then  went  on  quickly:  "And  the 
Graziella  of  Lamartine,  and  part  of  Le  Roman 
dun  Jeune  Homme  Pauvre." 

95 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

She  stopped  short,  but  this  time  she  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  his. 

Kent  was  somewhat  dashed,  then  a  certain  look 
in  those  thick- veiled  eyes  struck  him.  He  opened 
his  lips  to  speak,  then  closed  them,  then  began 
to  laugh.  "Signorina,"  said  he,  "with  permis 
sion,  I  believe  that  for  some  occult  reason  of  your 
own  you  are  putting  me  to  a  test." 

To  his  surprise  and  delight  Dione  lifted  her 
chin,  and  that  soft,  reedy  laughter  of  hers  rip 
pled  up  from  her  full  throat.  They  laughed  and 
laughed. 

Cecca,  in  her  eyry  of  green-bowered  kitchen 
window,  pricked  her  ears.  Was  that  her  young 
sciord's  rare  laughter  mingling  so  freely  with  the 
mirth  of  a  strange  man?  "He  must  be  a  very 
witty  scior,  truly,  to  make  the  child  laugh  out 
like  that,"  thought  she.  "Eh!  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  'tis  the  husband  come  at  last.  If  he  is 
as  good  as  his  looks,  all  will  be  well.  E  ciao!" 
said  Cecca  to  herself. 

"And  may  I  ask,"  said  Kent,  when  they  were 
calm  again,  and  only  smiling  joyously  at  each 
other — "may  I  venture  to  inquire  if  those  four 
admirable  books  form  the  complete  list  of  your 
reading?" 

Dione  shook  her  head,  still  smiling.  "Oh,  I 
read  all  sorts  of  things,"  said  she. 

They  were  quite  at  ease  now.  A  man  and 
woman  who  have  laughed  from  the  heart  to- 

96 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

gether  can  never  be  wholly  apart  again.  Some 
subtle  essence  of  each  has  been  mixed  in  the  cup 
of  understanding,  and  that  potent  brew  par 
taken  of  constitutes  part,  at  least,  of  the  cere 
mony  in  the  marriage  of  true  minds. 

"Yes,"  thought  Kent,  "when  she  smiles  she  is 
beautiful."  Aloud  to  her,  he  said: 

"You  say  that  very  whimsically.  Do  you 
think  that  I  shall  be  shocked  at  your  reading  'all 
sorts  of  things'?" 

"Your  friend,  the  Signor  Varoni,  was  much 
shocked." 

"Oh,  was  he?  ...  Now  I  strongly  suspect 
that  you  put  him  to  some  such  test  as  you  put 
me  .  .  .  only  of  a  different  nature,  perhaps. 
Was  it  not  so?" 

"I  was  only  quite  frank  with  him,"  said  Dione, 
with  demureness. 

"The  perfect  frankness  of  a  clever  woman  can 
be  a  severe  test,"  said  Kent,  as  demurely. 

"Well,"  said  Dione,  "you  see,  he  reminded  me 
of  those  books  that  I  mentioned  to  you,  and 
asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  them  delightful. 
And  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  last  three,  which 
had  bored  me  very  much  at  the  time,  .  .  .  and 
so  ...  well,  I  was  bored  again,  .  .  .  and  I  just 
mentioned  one  of  the  books  that  had  really  in 
terested  me,  though  it  did  not  please  me." 

"And  that  shocked  him?" 

"But  enormously!" 
7  97 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"May  I  know  what  book  it  was?" 

Dione  looked  at  him  quite  grave  again.  "No," 
said  she  at  last,  "I  have  no  desire  to  shock  you. 
.  .  .  Besides,  though  I  do  not  think  that  you 
would  be  shocked,  it  is  an  unpleasant  book  to 
discuss." 

"We  need  not  discuss  it,"  said  Kent,  really 
curious. 

"If  you  please,"  said  Dione,  "I  will  not  tell  the 
name  of  that  book." 

Thought  Kent:  "I  do  not  'please'  at  all.  I 
feel  that  in  learning  the  name  of  that  book  I 
should  learn  much  more.  But  when  you  set 
your  mouth  like  that  I  suppose  that  things  are 
settled." 

' '  Very  well,"  said  he.  "I  should  have  liked  to 
hear  it — because,  do  you  see  ? — Gigino  Varoni  is 
a  dear  chap,  and  not  at  all  a  fool,  and  I  cannot 
help  being  a  bit  curious  over  what  shocked  him 
so  greatly." 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  Dione,  with  acumen, 
"that  he  would  have  been  so  shocked  if  an  Eng 
lish  girl  had  read  it.  You  see,  Italian  girls  are 
supposed  to  know  nothing  of  what  is  under  life 
...  of  the  things  that  live  under  the  waters,  I 
might  say.  That  is  all.  They  are  supposed  just 
to  float  about  in  pretty,  white,  little  boats,  and 
ask  their  mammas  before  they  go  out  whether 
they  shall  say  '  Pere '  or  '  Prugne. ' '  She  made  the 
grimaces  that  correspond  with  these  two  words 

98 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

as  she  uttered  them,  first  simpering  with  her 
bright-red  lips,  then  pursing  them  up  as  if  for  a 
kiss.  "That  is  why  he  was  shocked,  you  see. 
But,  then,  since  you  have  been  so  much  in  Italy, 
you  must  know  all  this  as  well  as  I." 

Here  the  old  iron  gate  clanged,  and  shortly 
after  Madame  Rupin  came  up  the  path. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHE  was  warm,  and  excited,  and  flustered, 
and  very  pleased.  She  was  fashionably  at 
tired  in  a  smart  Milan  gown  and  hat,  both  much 
too  heavy  for  the  day,  and  she  kept  inserting  a 
little  wad  of  damp  handkerchief  under  her  big, 
black  -  speckled,  white  veil  as  she  talked,  and 
patting  away  the  perspiration  that  would  gather 
about  her  eyes. 

She  had  a  right,  indeed,  to  be  pleased.  Here 
within  ten  days  was  another  possible  husband  for 
her  trying  child,  and  one,  moreover,  who  was 
well  born,  rich,  and  distinguished — a  real  scior  in 
his  own  exacting  country.  She  had  "pumped" 
the  Varonin  dry,  you  may  be  sure,  on  the  sub 
ject  of  his  gifted  friend,  and  lo!  here  was  the 
gifted  friend  himself,  quite  at  home,  and  talking 
with  that  hard-to-please  daughter  of  hers  as  if 
he  were  really  enjoying  himself. 

She  insisted  upon  his  having  some  Marsala  and 
almond-cakes  first  of  all,  and  then,  when  he  ex 
cused  himself  for  the  third  time  with  the  cus 
tomary  thousand  of  thanks,  she  insisted  that  he 
should  stay  to  lunch  with  them.  As  he  had 
dedicated  this  one  more  day  to  loafing,  he  ac- 

100 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

cepted  with  pleasure.  "And  afterward,"  said  the 
delighted  lady,  "afterward  Dione  can  show  you 
the  Trinita.  .  .  .  Fortunate  girl!  She  neither 
tans  nor  freckles.  Do  you,  my  treasure?  .  .  . 
And  she  adores  long  walks,  and  never  takes  a 
siesta  after  luncheon,  as  we  other  poor,  weak 
little  women  do.  ...  She  is  so  strong.  .  .  . 
Like  an  English  girl.  .  .  .  Yes,  her  father  and  I 
have  brought  her  up  very  much  like  an  English 
girl.  ...  I  allow  her  to  take  walks  unchap- 
eroned  when  it  is  with  some  one  of  whom  I  am 
quite  certain.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  may  rest  assured 
that  the  Signora  Varpni  was  not  reserved  in  her 
accounts  of  you,  caro  Signore.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  it 
will  be  quite  delightful  to  have  so  distinguished 
a  visitor  to  lunch  in  our  quiet  little  abode.  ..." 
Then  suddenly  she  took  a  lightning  squint  down 
her  pretty  nose,  and  saw  that  it  was  very  shiny 
indeed.  "But  now,"  said  she,  hurriedly,  "I  must 
take  this  little  girl  of  mine  to  put  on  a  proper 
dress,  and  go  to  consult  my  donna  di  servizio 
about  the  meal  ..." 

And  she  tripped  off  on  her  slim,  long-toed, 
high-heeled,  champagne-colored,  white-buttoned 
boots  to  powder  that  most  aggravating  little  item 
in  the  sum  of  her  good  looks.  Dione's  costume 
and  the  zoccoli  had  almost  caused  her  mother 
a  fainting-fit  when  she  first  caught  sight  of  them, 
but  she  had  immediately  reflected  that  the  girl 
had  such  feet  to  bare  as  were  probably  not  to 

101 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

be  matched  in  all  Italy,  and  that  men  were 
"strange."  .  .  .  Perhaps  these  bare  feet  would 
accomplish  what  the  most  elaborate  toilette 
could  not.  Who  knew?  E  ciao! 

The  lunch  was  a  really  capital  repast  (Madame 
Rupin  being  a  gourmande  of  the  first  order) .  And 
Cecca  served  it  well,  looking  so  handsome  in  her 
pink-and-white  print  gown,  and  the  real  rose- 
silk  headkerchief  that  Dione  had  given  her  on  her 
last  festa,  that  Kent  could  scarcely  keep  his  eyes 
from  her. 

' '  What  a  superb  old  woman , ' '  said  he.  "  Quite 
the  most  beautiful  old  woman  I  have  ever  seen, 
I  think." 

Dione  looked  pleased,  and  her  deep  eyes  grew 
liquid. 

"As  for  me,"  said  her  mother,  "I  could  never 
see  the  least  beauty  in  old  age.  ...  To  me  it  is 
the  most  horrible  of  all  ideas,  except  the  idea  of 
death.  B-r-r-r.  ..."  And  she  shuddered,  mak 
ing  the  sign  against  evil  out  of  sight  among  the 
folds  of  her  gown. 

"But  Cecca  is  beautiful,  mamma,"  insisted 
Dione.  "Age  does  not  take  away  her  fine  pro 
file  or  her  splendid  eyes.  .  .  ." 

"Age,"  retorted  her  mother,  "is  loathsome  in 
spite  of  a  hundred  fine  noses  and  eyes.  A  man 
once  said  to  me  that  all  women  over  fifty  ought 
to  be  killed  .  .  .  and  he  was  perfectly  right,"  she 
ended,  bitterly. 

102 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Then  she  recalled  suddenly  the  situation,  and 
became  once  more  all  treacle-y  smiles,  and  little 
facetiousnesses,  and  "Tesoros"  and  "Gioias." 
By  the  end  of  lunch  Kent  felt  that  he  had  had 
just  about  as  much  of  Dione's  mother  as  he  could 
stand  for  the  time  being.  The  way  that  she 
quirked  her  little,  moist,  very  white,  black- 
rimmed  fingers  in  handling  knife  and  fork  took 
off  the  edge  of  even  his  robust  appetite. 

It  was  with  a  deep  lung-filling  of  relief  that  he 
found  himself  walking  through  the  cool  chestnut 
woods  alone  with  Dione  toward  the  Hermitage 
of  the  Trinita. 

"You  do  indeed  walk  like  an  English  girl, 
Signorina,"  he  said,  as  she  stepped  in  perfect  time 
beside  him,  with  her  long,  fauve  gait.  ' '  Or,  rather, 
you  walk  as  fast  and  much  more  gracefully. 
Gigino  told  me  about  your  walk.  It  quite  bowled 
him  over,"  he  added,  mischievously,  with  the 
Italian  equivalent  for  "bowled  him  over." 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  had  walked  with  Sig- 
nor  Varoni,"  said  the  girl,  unconcernedly.  "A 
little  stroll  in  the  garden  .  .  .  that  was  not  walk 
ing." 

"At  any  rate,"  persisted  Kent,  "he  was  quite 
overcome." 

"He  is  easily  overcome,  then,"  said  Dione,  still 
more  indifferently. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  brought  the  Sasso  di 
Ferro  into  full  view. 

103 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"That  is  an  extraordinary  mountain,"  said 
Kent,  gazing  at  it.  "I  suppose  it  cannot  im 
press  you,  who  have  lived  in  sight  of  it  all  your 
life,  as  it  does  me." 

Dione  looked  at  it  with  him  in  silence  for  some 
moments.  Then  she  glanced  at  his  absorbed  face. 

"I  call  it  Pan's  Mountain,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Tan's  Mountain'!"  he  repeated.  "It  is  its 
very  name.  Why  did  I  not  think  of  that,  I 
wonder?  .  .  ." 

Then  he  looked  down  with  a  new  interest  at 
Dione.  "You  love  the  memory  of  the  old  dead 
gods?"  he  asked. 

"They  do  not  seem  dead  to  me,"  she  answered. 

"No?"  he  said,  more  interested  than  ever. 

"No,"  said  Dione. 

"You  mean  that  you  really  ..." 

"I  cannot  talk  about  it,"  said  the  girl.  "At 
least,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "I  cannot  talk 
about  it  with  most  people." 

"I  am  not  'most  people,'"  said  Kent,  whimsi 
cally.  "With  your  permission,  I  am  considered 
a  poet  .  .  .  and  that  is  the  sort  of  thing  they 
always  understand." 

"Why  do  you  say  'considered' ?"  asked  Dione. 
"Signer  Varoni  says  that  even  our  great  poets 
say  that  you  are  a  poet." 

"Then,"  said  Kent,  trying  to  be  as  direct  and 
unaffected  as  she  was,  "do  you  not  think  that 
you  might  talk  about  such  things  with  a  poet?" 

104 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Dione  looked  right  up  into  his  eyes,  and  he  saw 
that  her  thick  lashes  made  reflections  in  them 
exactly  like  grasses  in  still  water. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  at  last,  "when  I  know  you 
better." 

"And  when  shall  you  know  me  well  enough,  do 
you  think?" 

"When  I  know  the  things  you  laugh  at,"  said 

Dione.     "No  one  ever  knows  another  in  the 

least  until  one  knows  the  things  they  laugh  at." 

"That,  Signorina,  is  a  profound  truth,"  said 

Kent. 

"Yes,  though  I  am  only  eighteen  years  old,  I 
have  found  out  that  that  is  true,"  replied  Dione. 
They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  while,  and  then 
Kent  said  again : 

"  It  is  really  amazing  how  well  you  walk.  One 
is  not  used  to  seeing  Italian  women  walk  like  that. 
I  believe  you  could  go  on  for  fifteen  or  twenty 
kilometres  without  tiring.  You  do  not  walk  in 
any  respect  like  an  Italian  woman." 

"It  is,  perhaps,  that  I  do  not  wear  corsets," 
said  Dione. 

Kent  could  not  restrain  a  glance  of  astonish 
ment.  The  slight,  strong  figure  in  its  smoothly 
fitting  gown  of  white  linen,  cut  all  in  one,  had 
seemed  to  him  too  absolutely  finished  and  per 
fect  not  to  be  molded  artificially  at  some  point. 
"No,  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  only  that,"  was 
all  that  he  said;  and  went  on:  "But  as  strong 

105 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

and  active  as  you  are,  do  you  only  walk  for  ex 
ercise?" 

"I  can  swim,"  said  Dione  . . .  "well,"  she  added 
after  a  second,  "and  I  can  play  boccie  .  .  .  but 
mamma  does  not  like  me  to." 

"Can  you  really  play  boccie  well,  Signorina? 
...  A  woman's  greatest  talent  is  not  for  throw 
ing  things,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  My  father  explained  to  me 
why  I  can  throw  so  well.  It  is  because  these 
bones" — she  indicated  her  splendidly  set  clavicle 
— "with  me  are  put  in  like  a  boy's." 

"I  see,"  said  Kent,  amused. 

"If  you  do  not  quite  believe  me,"  said  she,  with 
perfect  good-humor,  "we  can  have  a  game  at  the 
Trinita,  and  then  you  can  see  for  yourself." 

"Capital!"  exclaimed  Kent.  "But  I  do  be 
lieve  you.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"It  is  a  hard  thing  to  believe  that  a  girl  can 
throw  things  well,"  returned  Dione.  "And  you 
never  saw  me  until  two  hours  ago." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Kent,  seriously,  "I  should 
believe  whatever  you  told  me." 

"Then,"  said  Dione,  as  seriously,  "you  really 
know  things  as  one  knows  when  one  is  wet  all 
over,  as  Cecca  says.  Because  the  one  thing  that 
I  always  do  is  to  tell  the  truth.  It  makes  mamma 
very  displeased  sometimes,  and  even  Cecca  thinks 
that  I  go  too  far.  .  .  .  But,  tell  me  ...  do  you 
think  that  one  can  go  too  far  with  the  truth?" 

106 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Ah,"  said  Kent,  "that  is  a  very  puzzling  ques 
tion.  I  would  not  dare  to  say  'No'  or  'Yes'  to 
it,  just  offhand,  like  that.  You  see,  I  can  be 
truthful,  too,  for  that  was  not  at  all  the  proper 
answer  to  make  you." 

"I  prefer  truth  to  properness  very  much,"  said 
Dione. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

KENT  worked  like  a  monomaniac  for  two 
weeks  with  the  rapidity  and  ease  of  a 
machine  descending  with  a  god.  The  monotony 
of  these  days  would  have  been  appalling  to  any 
save  the  creative  temper.  With  the  regularity 
of  fine  clockwork  he  rose  at  six,  went  Indian- 
trotting  down  to  the  lake  for  a  swim  before  the 
domicile  of  Ping  (with  whom  he  had  made  great 
friends),  trotted  back,  tingling  and  exultant,  to 
breakfast  on  rye-bread  and  coffee  at  half -past 
eight,  and  at  half-past  nine  was  in  the  thick  of 
the  enchanted  jungle  of  poetry — slashing  away 
creepers  of  simile  too  clogging,  snatching  at 
strange  word  -  orchids,  swimming  bright,  dan 
gerous  rivers  of  invention,  tracking  the  painted 
beasts  of  fancy  to  their  breeding-places — alive, 
out  of  the  flesh,  playing  with  language  like  a  child 
with  a  sword  of  flame — unenvious  of  any  god  in 
the  awareness  of  his  own  godhead. 

Thus  for  three  or  four  hours.  Then  would 
come  the  reaction.  How  many  fools  had  thought 
themselves  Homers?  Had  he  not  a  whole  shelf 
of  self-published  megalomaniacs  who  had  sent 

108 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

him  their  effusions  as  the  unappreciated  first- 
fruits  of  the  age  ?  Was  not  one  of  these  a  com 
plete  History  of  the  United  States  in  very  blank 
verse  and  a  thick  quarto  volume,  which  opened 
with  a  scene  between  the  archangels  Michael  and 
Raphael  in  Westminster  Abbey  ?  And  did  not  its 
writer  think  it  more  sublime  than  Paradise  Lost? 

Then,  in  a  soggy  and  darkling  mood,  he  would 
partake  of  polenta  and  milk  on  the  little  green 
table  in  the  balcony  (for  he  never  drank  wine 
when  he  was  writing) ,  shake  his  fist  at  the  imper 
turbable  Sasso  di  Ferro  as  at  one  from  whom  came 
baneful  influences,  and,  after  a  short  siesta,  flat 
on  his  back  on  the  tiled  floor  with  his  pet  pipe, 
wrould  spring  up  as  reinvigorated  as  Antaeus  after 
contact  with  the  earth,  and  reading  snatches  of 
the  morning's  work,  would  cry,  "Yes  .  .  .  it's 
good  .  .  .  it's  good." 

After  that  came  an  afternoon  of  revision  and 
the  jotting  down  of  thick-swarming  thoughts. 
Then  another  trot-down  and  swim,  and  back 
again  in  time  for  dinner. 

With  this  meal  he  had  a  deep  quaff  of  the  good 
wine  of  Solcio,  then  went  down-stairs  to  chat 
with  the  Sciora  Laura  and  Pedring,  or  to  take 
a  hand  at  scopa  or  briscola  with  the  latter,  until 
ten  o'clock,  at  which  hour  he  dragged  his  mat 
tress  out  upon  the  little  balcony  and  went  to 
sleep  in  the  clean,  fragrant  air  with  the  constel 
lations  wheeling  majestically  above  him. 

109 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

This,  to  her,  mad  whim  of  his  for  sleeping  out 
in  the  open,  with  not  even  a  sheet  between  him 
and  the  malevolent  air  of  night,  scandalized  and 
distressed  the  Sciora  Laura  to  a  painful  degree. 
In  vain  Kent  assured  her  that  he  draped  the 
balcony  with  his  travelling-rugs  so  that  no  air- 
shy  neighbor  could  be  horrified.  It  was  not  that. 
No,  truly.  It  was  that  he  would  surely  get  a 
"stroke  of  cold,"  and  this  stroke  might  fall  upon 
his  liver  or  his  spleen,  or  even  upon  his  heart, 
God  alone  could  tell  .  .  .  and  he  might  be  very 
ill,  or  even  die.  .  .  .  And  then  his  lady  mother's 
grief  would  be  upon  her,  Laura,  like  a  dark  curse. 
She  implored,  she  argued,  she  almost  threatened. 
And  when  she  found  that  all  was  vain  she 
actually  made  a  little  pilgrimage  to  a  distant 
chapel  and  asked  the  Virgin's  special  protection 
for  a  crazy  son  who  was  far  from  the  mother  who 
might  have  controlled  him. 

At  the  end  of  these  two  weeks  Kent  felt  a  sud 
den,  overwhelming  thirst  for  the  companionship 
of  his  own  kind  and  degree.  Varoni  had  been  in 
London  for  some  time  on  business  for  his  father, 
who  was  a  Milan  banker.  There  were  only  the 
Rupins  left. 

"The  very  thing,"  said  he,  as  this  thought  came 
to  him.  "I'll  let  up  for  a  day,  and  go  and  ask 
that  queer,  interesting  girl  to  come  and  have  a 
game  of  boccie  at  the  Trinita." 

And  he  smiled  with  sheer  pleasure  in  the  un- 
no 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

usual  and  beautiful,  as  he  recalled  the  backward 
swing  of  her  tall,  springy  figure,  with  one  of  the 
big,  wooden  balls  poised  in  her  lifted  hand. 

All  the  time  that  he  was  dressing  for  this  ex 
pedition  he  whistled  so  gayly  and  so  masterfully 
in  two  keys,  that  Laura  told  her  son:  "One  would 
think  two  blackbirds  singing  together  in  the 
house." 

He  arrived  at  Vareggio  just  as  they  were  finish 
ing  breakfast.  Would  the  Signora  Rupin  be  so 
very  gracious  as  to  allow  her  daughter  to  walk  to 
the  Trinita  with  him,  and  there  partake  of  lunch  ? 
"It  is  an  English  custom,"  he  added,  cutely;  but 
he  said  nothing  of  the  game  of  boccic,  remember 
ing  Dione's  mention  of  her  "mamma's  "  prejudice. 
The  Signora  Rupin,  who  had  almost  given  him 
up  as  a  probable  suitor  for  her  child's  hand,  and 
who  had  caused  Cecca  and  Dione  some  trying 
moments  on  that  account,  agreed  to  this  sug 
gestion  with  unveiled  delight. 

She  even  proposed  that  Cecca  should  put  them 
up  an  elaborate  lunch  which  they  might  carry  in 
her  own  little  two-handled  Venetian  basket. 
But  Dione  said  that  one  could  get  an  excellent 
frittata  and  salad  at  the  Trinita,  and  that  she 
was  sure  that  the  Signer  Kent  would  rather  not 
carry  a  basket.  Kent  admitted  that  he  pre 
ferred  the  idea  of  a  frittata  already  on  the  spot, 
and  with  that  and  many  auguri  from  the  en 
thusiastic  Signora  Mamma,  they  set  off. 

in 


PAN'S    MOUNTAI  N 

Dione  was  already  dressed  for  walking,  as  she 
had  intended  to  take  a  long  ramble  in  the  hills  by 
herself. 

"The  very  thing  for  a  game  of  boccie,"  declared 
Kent  in  high  good-humor,  looking  at  her  short 
skirt  of  stiff,  gray  fustian,  and  her  loose  blouse 
of  white  silk  that  had  been  washed  many  times. 
She  wore  a  little  white  linen  peasant's  hat,  and 
carried  a  light  staff  of  bamboo. 

"It  was  sheer  inspiration,  my  thought  of  ask 
ing  you  to  come,"  continued  he. 

"Yes.  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Dione.  "It  is 
a  good  day  for  a  game.  Not  too  hot,  and  over 
cast." 

"It  is  a  good  day  for  anything,"  said  Kent. 

That  last  scene  between  Leonardo  and  the 
Lady  Lisa  made  him  feel  that  he  had  a  right  to 
the  playthings  of  the  gods. 

They  went  without  pausing  through  the  garden 
and  up  the  hillside  and  past  the  cascade,  out  upon 
the  one  street  of  Vareggio.  Here  the  sight  of 
some  boys  torturing  two  little  gire  (the  thin- 
tailed  squirrels  of  the  lake)  brought  them  to  an 
angry  halt. 

Dione,  too  indignant  to  be  wise,  ordered  the 
instant  release  of  the  gire.  The  boys  merely 
grinned,  and  dragged  the  little  creatures  faster 
through  the  dust  by  the  cords  which  they  had 
fastened  to  their  legs.  Then  Kent  was  for  using 
force. 

112 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

^"No  ...  no  ..."  said  Dione,  "the  whole 
village  will  be  up  if  you  mishandle  the  children. 
Let  me  speak  some  more." 

And,  turning,  she  poured  forth  a  torrent  of 
forceful  dialect  that  gave  the  boys  pause  for  a 
moment,  and  made  them  look  foolishly,  first  at 
her  and  then  at  one  another. 

"Are  they  going  to  let  them  go?  ...  What 
did  you  say  to  them?"  asked  Kent. 

"I  cursed  them,"  said  Dione,  simply. 

"You  did  what?" 

"I  said:  'If  you  do  not  let  those  gire  go,  may 
the  Madonna  see  that  you  go  to  the  Inferno  as 
gire  yourselves,  and  may  stout  devils  with  horns 
and  forked  tails  tie  you  by  the  leg  with  cords  of 
fire  and  drag  your  eyes  out  over  hot  cobble 
stones!'" 

"Lord  love  us !"  breathed  Kent,  consumed  with 
inward  laughter.  "They'll  let  them  go,  I  should 
think." 

But  despite  this  thorough  and  original  cursing, 
they  had  to  produce  some  soldi  and  buy  the  gire 
before  the  imps  would  part  with  them. 

As  soon  as  the  strings  were  handed  them  Dione 
lifted  the  worst  injured  little  beast  and  cuddled 
it  against  her  breast.  Kent  caught  up  the  other, 
which  promptly  bit  him  through  the  fleshy  part 
of  his  finger. 

"Have  care,  Signorina!"  called  he,  finger  in 
mouth  and  the  gira  transferred  gingerly  to 

8  113 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

his  pocket.  "These  little  animals  bite  like 
traps." 

"Nothing  ever  bites  me,"  said  Dione.  "I  can 
handle  any  wild  thing." 

And  she  continued  to  cherish  the  little  panting 
bunch  of  fur  and  fish-like  bones. 

They  retraced  their  steps  to  the  house,  and 
Dione  laid  the  gire  upon  some  cotton-wool  in  the 
cage  which  had  once  held  a  blackbird  that  she 
had  set  free  again,  for  the  sight  of  a  caged  bird 
infuriated  her  almost  as  much  as  the  sight  of 
animals  being  tortured. 

"Keep  them  carefully  for  me,  Cecca  mia,"  she 
said.  "I  will  put  them  back  in  the  forest  with 
my  own  hands  this  evening  if  they  are  recovered 
enough." 

Then  she  and  Kent  set  out  for  the  Trinita 
again,  this  time  without  further  adventures. 


CHAPTER   XV 

I  AM  always  glad  when  I  see  a  sight  like 
that  that  I  am  not  a  Christian,"  said 
Dione,  as  they  passed  once  more  through  Vareg- 
gio  on  their  way  to  the  forest. 

Kent  thought  her  the  most  amazingly  and  de 
lightfully  unexpected  being  that  he  had  ever 
known. 

"And  why?"  asked  he,  taking  this  startling 
announcement  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"Because  when  one  sees  men  or  boys  torturing 
some  poor,  helpless  thing,  and  remonstrates  with 
them,  they  always  say,  lHin  minga  Christian1 
(They're  not  Christians),  as  if  being  a  Christian 
gave  one  the  right  to  every  sort  of  devil's  cruelty 
over  those  who  are  not." 

"And  you,  yourself  .  .  .  with  permission  I 
should  like  to  know  the  reason  why  you  do  not 
call  yourself  a  Christian?" 

"It  is  because  of  the  beasts,"  said  Dione. 

"Because  of  the  beasts?"  said  Kent. 

"Yes.  Christians,  here  in  Italy  at  least,  are 
most  cruel  to  animals.  I  often  think  how  it 
might  have  been  if  the  Christ  had  said  a  great 

"5 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

saying  for  the  poor  beasts.  'Consider  the  lilies,' 
He  said,  but  if  He  had  said,  'Consider  the  beasts,' 
how  much  better  that  would  have  been.  He 
said,  'Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  they  shall 
inherit  the  earth'  .  .  .  but  suppose  He  had  said, 
'Blessed  are  the-kind-to-animals,  for  God  will  be 
kind  to  them'  ?  .  .  .  Think  how  different  it  would 
all  have  been !  No  poor  gire  with  their  eyes  half 
dragged  out,  no  poor  horses  beaten  over  the  heads 
with  great  sticks  when  their  loads  are  too  heavy 
or  struck  with  whips  having  nails  in  them,  such 
as  they  use  in  Naples.  .  .  .  No,  if  the  Christ 
had  said  that  a  Christian  is  one  who  is  merciful 
to  animals,  all  those  cryings  and  groanings  of 
helpless  hurt  beasts  would  never  have  sounded 
through  Christian  lands." 

Her  eyes  were  dark  and  hot,  and  her  breast 
heaving.  It  was  a  rare  thing  for  Dione  to  work 
herself  into  a  passion,  and  she  was  really  a  rare 
thing  to  look  upon  when  she  did  so.  There  was 
something  about  her,  some  inner  glow,  that  was 
like  a  white  sword-flame  in  a  clear  sheath. 

Kent  was  beginning  to  think  her  remarkable  as 
well  as  unusual. 

"You  make  one  reflect,  Signorina,"  said  he. 

"I  have  reflected  a  great  deal  myself,"  replied 
she  in  her  usual  direct  fashion.  "I  have  been 
much  alone,  and  when  one  is  alone  one  has  only 
one's  thoughts." 

"Most  people  have  only  those  of  others." 
116 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Other  people's  thoughts  do  not  interest  me 
as  my  own  do.  I  may  have  said  a  stupidity,  but 
it  is  true." 

"It  is  certainly  far  from  being  stupid.  But 
tell  me,  if  I  am  not  indiscreet,  do  you  never  go 
to  mass,  as  others  do  ?" 

"I  go  with  my  mother  at  certain  times  be 
cause  I  do  not  wish  to  give  her  unnecessary  pain 
by  seeming  too  peculiar  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
But  I  have  told  her  how  I  feel.  It  was  my 
father's  wish  that  I  should  believe  only  what 
came  naturally  to  me." 

"Your  father  must  have  been  a  very  wise 
man." 

"Yes,  my  father  was  both  wise  and  good." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said: 

"I  think  that  you  would  have  pleased  him." 

Kent  felt  himself  flush  with  pleasure  like  a  boy. 
He  knew  instinctively  that  a  compliment  coming 
from  Dione  was  a  most  unusual  thing. 

"Thank  you,  Signorina,"  said  he.  "I  should 
have  felt  it  an  honor  to  know  him." 

"And  then,"  Dione  continued,  intoxicated  by 
the  singular  delight  of  talking  to  some  one  who 
comprehended  her,  and  speaking  more  in  an  hour 
than  she  had  done  in  a  whole  week,  "some  of 
those  stories  in  the  Bible  seem  to  me  so  very 
silly  when  they  are  not  improper.  That  tale  of 
Moses  going  up  on  a  mountain  and  taking  stone 
tablets  on  which  God  wrote  with  His  finger. 

117 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Think  of  a  God  with  fingers,  Signore!  Is  it  not 
to  be  like  those  black  men  with  hair  of  wool  who 
worship  idols?  Or  like  the  Spanish  sailors  who 
beat  the  image  of  the  Madonna  if  she  doesn't 
send  them  fair  weather  when  they  pray  for  it? 
Truly,  Signore,  think  of  a  God  who  said  'Let 
there  be  light'  and  there  was  light,  using  His  fin 
gers — His  finger  .  .  .  Signore! — and  tracing  out 
words !  Of  course  when  one  has  had  a  father  like 
mine,  and  thought  long,  long  days  and  weeks  and 
years  all  alone  as  I  have,  one  cannot  believe  such 
clumsy  inventions.  But  it  occurred  to  me  once," 
she  continued,  "when  I  was  reading  about  it  all 
in  the  Old  Testament  .  .  .  my  father  gave  me 
a  Bible  in  French,  you  must  know,  as  he  wished 
me  to  look  into  these  things  for  myself  ...  it 
occurred  to  me  that  there  might  have  been  some 
sort  of  foundation  for  that  story,  since,  of  course, 
Moses  must  have  cut  the  letters  in  the  stone  him 
self.  And  as  I  could  not  find  out  the  real  ac 
count  in  the  Bible,  I  began  making  one  in  my  own 
head.  It  was  very  amusing." 

"There  is  nothing  more  amusing,  truly,  than 
making  things  in  one's  own  head,"  said  Kent, 
afraid  of  saying  more,  lest  he  should  stop  the  flow 
of  her  confidence. 

"Yes.  ...  Is  it  not  so?  ...  Well,  this  his 
tory  that  I  made  up  was  about  a  poor  woman  of 
the  strangers,  who  had  been  married  by  an 
Israelite,  and  whom  Moses  had  caused  to  be  put 

1x8 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

away.     She  naturally  disliked  Moses  .  .  .  do  you 
understand?" 

"Entirely,"  said  Kent.  "She  naturally  would." 
"And,  besides,  she  believed  in  her  own  gods, 
and  not  in  this  irascible  Jehovah  whom  he  was 
always  talking  of.  And  she  also  thought  that 
Moses  occasionally  told  untruths.  Moreover,  she 
knew  of  his  killing  that  man  and  hiding  him  in 
the  sand,  so  she  did  not  think  that  God  could 
really  have  chosen  Moses  for  His  intimate  friend, 
as  Moses  himself  was  always  saying.  No,  this  she 
did  not  believe  for  a  moment.  So,  in  my  thought, 
I  made  this  woman,  very  strong  in  the  revenge  of 
her  heart,  creep  after  Moses  all  the  way  up  that 
rocky  mountain  of  Sinai,  and  though  her  poor 
feet  bled  ...  for  she  had  been  cast  out  from  the 
people,  you  know,  and  was  very  poor,  and  so  had 
no  shoes  and  scarcely  any  clothing  .  .  .  though 
her  feet  were  bleeding  and  all  her  bones  aching  as 
with  malaria,  she  had  a  great,  dark  joy  within 
that  kept  her  up  and  enabled  her  to  reach  the 
mountain-top.  And  when  she  was  there  she  hid 
herself  behind  a  rock  and  saw,  with  her  own  eyes, 
Moses  himself  cutting  the  words  in  the  stone 

tablets." 

"Well?"  said  Kent. 

"Well  .  .  .  then  she  followed  him  down  again, 
very  cunningly,  so  that  he  never  knew  that  she 
was  there.  And  when  all  the  people  were  as 
sembled  she  sprang  up  before  them  and  lifted  her 

119 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

arms  in  the  air,  and  cried  out  with  a  great  cry  : 
'  People !  Your  prophet  lies  to  you  .  .  .  God  has 
not  written  on  these  stones  either  with  finger  or 
with  pen,  but  Moses  himself  has  cut  out  the 
letters  with  a  chisel,  for  with  these  eyes  I  beheld 
him!'" 

So  lost  was  Dione  in  her  invention  that  she 
paused,  and,  tossing  up  her  arms,  uttered  the 
speech  of  the  stranger  woman  with  tragic  in 
tensity. 

"And  then?"  asked  Kent,  after  waiting  a 
moment. 

"And  then  the  people  stoned  her,  and  went  on 
believing  in  Moses  and  the  finger  of  God.  It  is 
always  so." 

"Yes,"  said  Kent,  thoughtfully,  "it  is  always 
so." 

The  girl's  mind  began  to  fascinate  him.  He 
longed  to  draw  her  out  more  and  more,  yet  did 
not  know  exactly  how  to  do  so.  He  felt  like  a 
man  on  whose  shoulder  a  free  bird  of  the  air  has 
alighted,  afraid  to  speak,  afraid  to  make  a  move 
ment  of  any  kind.  But  he  need  not  have  feared, 
for  that  divine  elation  of  the  soul  confessing  itself 
to  the  soul  that  comprehends  still  held  Dione,  and 
her  thoughts,  long  pent,  pressed  for  utterance  like 
birds  against  a  window-pane  behind  which  is  a 
light. 

"Now,  you  understand,  Signore,"  she  said,  as 
they  walked  on,  "that  I  have  no  disbelief  in  a 

1 20 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

great  God  above  all  gods.  It  is  only  that  I  feel 
that  about  that  God  men  cannot  know,  so  that 
the  less  they  speak  and  say  about  Him  the  more 
truly  do  they  worship  Him.  The  gods  that  are 
near,  that  are  made  in  our  image — those  are  the 
gods  of  which  men  may  speak  and  write." 

"Ah,"  thought  Kent,  "the  bird  is  coming  into 
my  hand.  Now  she  will  tell  me  what  she  would 
not  tell  the  other  day.  She  must  have  guessed 
the  things  at  which  I  laugh  and  at  which  I  do  not 
laugh." 

He  was  wisely  silent,  however,  just  giving  her 
an  understanding  look,  and  Dione  continued. 

"My  old  nurse,  Cecca,  you  must  know,  Signore, 
believes  in  witches  and  such  things.  I  do  not 
know  whether  witches  exist  or  not,  but  I  cannot 
laugh  at  her,  for  I  believe  in  some  things  myself 
at  which  others  would  laugh." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 

"Not  I,"  said  Kent.  "I  believe  in  those  sorts 
of  things  myself." 

"Yes?"  said  Dione.  "That  is  well.  I  must 
have  felt  it,  for  I  could  not  have  talked  with  you 
as  I  have  done  had  it  been  otherwise.  About 
these  things  that  I  believe  in  ...  it  is  like  this. 
None  can  prove  to  me  that  they  are  not  true; 
but,  then,  neither  can  I  prove  to  any  that  they 
are  true." 

"Exactly,"  said  Kent. 

It  occurred  to  him,  drolly,  that  his  replies  were 

121 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

becoming  very  like  the  answers  of  the  persons 
interrogated  by  Socrates  in  the  dialogues  of  Plato. 

"Precisely,"  said  he,  again. 

"And  sometimes,"  went  on  Dione,  "I  think 
that  it  must  be  with  Cecca  something  as  it  is  with 
me.  Whether  half  asleep  or  wider  awake  than 
usual  I  do  not  know,  .  .  .  but  there  are  times 
when  I  seem  to  hear  and  see  things,  and  though 
they  are  not  real,  as  you  and  I  are  real  here  in 
the  sunlight,  walking  along  these  mountains  to 
the  Trinita,  yet  they  are  more  real  in  some  strange 
way—  I  say  it  badly,"  she  broke  off,  looking  up 
at  him  from  under  dissatisfied  brows. 

"No,  you  say  it  perfectly,"  returned  Kent. 
"It  is  the  creative  mood  that  you  are  describing 
—the  mood  in  which  one  makes  beings  of  one's 
mind-stuff,  and  they  are  realer  than  all  the  flesh- 
and-blood  beings  in  the  world." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,"  said  Dione,  breathlessly,  and 
she  smiled. 

This  smile  made  her  so  beautiful  that  Kent 
just  stared  at  her,  off  his  guard. 

But  she  was  not  conscious  that  she  was  being 
stared  at. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "I  will  tell  you  the  kind 
of  thing  that  I  mean.  .  .  .  One  night  last  winter 
.  .  .  oh,  it  was  very  cold!  .  .  .  The  snow  came 
'pat,  pat'  against  my  window  like  hands  of  little 
baby  ghosts  asking  to  come  in.  ...  The  wind 
made  noises  like  a  great  bird  in  my  chimney. 

122 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

.  .  •_  One  could  hear  the  trees  crack  with  the  cold 
outside.  .  .  .  And  in  my  room  it  was  cold,  cold. 
.  .  .  When  I  lighted  a  candle  (for  I  could  not 
sleep,  I  was  so  cold)  I  could  see  my  own  breath 
and  the  breath  of  Masciett  coming  out  in  little 
puffs  like  smoke,  where  he  lay  sleeping  on  his  rug 
beside  my  bed.  ...  So  I  got  up  and  took  shav 
ings  and  pine-cones,  and  lighted  a  great  fire.  .  .  . 
I  was  crouching  before  this  fire,  and  Masciett 
close  to  me,   and  whether  I  dozed,  who  shall 
say?    .    .    .    But  all  at   once  against  my  win 
dow  came  three  taps,  sharp  and  clear  .  .  .  the 
way  that  a  great  queen  might  rap,  half  angrily, 
if  she  were  shut  out  in  the  cold.     I  went  at  once 
(or  so  I  thought) ,  for  that  calling  was  not  to  be 
disobeyed,  and  I  threw  wide  my  shutters.  .  .  . 
And  it  was  the  Lady  Diana  and  two  noble  white 
hounds  who  stood  there  at  my  window.    And  her 
great  bow  of  silver  shone  across  her  shoulder. 
.  .  .  And  the  arrows  in  her  quiver  were  frozen 
together,  and  the  quiver  filled  with  snow. 

"And  she  was  frowning  at  first,  but  then  she 
smiled,  and  reached  me  her  hand,  and  I  led  her 
to  the  fire,  and  spread  for  her  the  white  bear 
skin  that  belonged  to  my  father,  and  that  always 
lies  upon  my  bed  in  winter.  And  I  gave  her  some 
apples  and  honey  which  I  had  by  me,  .  .  .  and 
to  the  dogs  I  gave  warm  milk,  .  .  .  and  they 
lapped  it  up  ...  and  were  very  friendly.  But 
Masciett  went  from  them  in  terror,  and  hid  far 

123 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

under  my  bed.  And  his  coat  was  bristling,  .  .  . 
and  he  moaned  in  his  throat  all  the  time  that  they 
remained. 

"And  when  she  had  eaten,  the  Lady  Diana 
said:  'Maiden,  I  come  to  you  because  when  you 
were  but  a  little  child  and  your  father  had  been 
telling  you  my  name  and  who  I  am,  you  poured 
me  libation  that  evening  of  the  milk  in  your  little 
bowl  of  silver,  and  you  said,  "Hail,  Diana!" 
And  now,  in  this  land  where  I  was  once  so  mighty, 
and  on  all  this  dark  earth,  there  is  none  who 
keeps  faith  in  me  but  only  you  alone — and  to  you 
alone  have  I  appeared,  and  to  you  alone  have  I 
made  myself  known.  Unto  no  Christian  could 
I  appear  or  be  made  known,  for  they  are  a  strange 
people,  and  have  set  up  a  strange  Virgin  in  my 
stead.  And  in  all  my  fair  hunting-places  and 
on  the  sides  of  all  my  mountains  have  they  built 
shrines  to  this  strange  Virgin,  who  has  yet  borne 
a  child  and  nurses  it  always  against  her  breast. 
And  her  they  worship  with  weeping  and  wailing, 
but  me  they  worshipped  with  laughter  and  dan 
cing.  Yet  I  am  Diana,  and  a  Virgin,  indeed,  who 
have  no  worshippers  any  more  forever,  but  no 
child!'  .  .  .  These  words,  or  some  such  words  as 
these,  she  spoke  to  me,  and  then  bent  and  kissed 
me  upon  the  forehead.  And  with  the  cold  of  that 
kiss  I  lost  myself  entirely.  And  when  I  next 
knew  anything  the  white  dawn  was  come,  and 
Masciett  licking  my  cheek,  .  .  .  and  there  on  the 

124 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

hearth  was  the  empty  bowl  in  which  I  had  poured 
the  warm  milk." 

They  had  reached  the  Trinith.  while  Dione  was 
speaking,  and  had  seated  themselves  side  by  side 
on  the  stone  parapet  of  the  terrace  before  the 
church,  overlooking  the  lake.  The  green  tent  of 
the  old  pollard  linden-trees  rustled  above  them, 
and  the  light  tramontana  lifted  the  wreath  of 
Dione 's  black  flamelets  of  hair  into  a  sort  of  airy 
diadem.  She  had  tossed  her  hat  upon  the  ground 
in  the  earnestness  of  her  talk,  and  Kent  stooped 
and  placed  it  upon  the  wall  beside  her  as  she 
finished. 

"Signorina,"  said  he,  "is  it  possible  that  I  shall 
be  telling  you  news  when  I  tell  you  that  you, 
yourself,  are  a  poet?" 

"Who?  ...  I?  ..."  said  Dione,  and  she 
looked  scared. 

"Yes,  you,  Signorina.  Have  you  never  tried 
to  set  down  things  in  writing  ?  Is  it  really  possi 
ble  that  you  have  never  tried  that?" 

"Oh  no  ...  no  ...  no,"  said  Dione.  "I  could 
not  do  it.  ...  I  do  not  wish  to.  .  .  .  You  are 
entirely  mistaken.  ...  I  just  live  these  things. 
The  instant  that  I  should  try  to  write  them  they 
would  vanish  ...  I  assure  you,  I  assure  you." 

"Very  well.  .  .  .  You  must  know  best,  of 
course,"  agreed  Kent,  fearful  of  startling  her  too 
much.  "But,  with  permission,  I  shall  make  a 
few  notes  of  your  story  of  Diana,  and  then  try 

125 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

to  put  it  into  my  very  imperfect  Italian  for  you, 
so  that  you  may  see  for  yourself  whether  it  is  a 
poem  or  not." 

And  he  took  a  small,  worn  note-book  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  drew  from  it  a  pencil. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Dione  saw  the 
little,  teeth-marked,  silver  pencil  that  was  to  be 
come  so  familiar  to  her. 

He  scribbled  earnestly  for  a  time,  and  she 
watched  him,  half  fascinated,  half  ashamed. 

"There,"  he  said  at  last,  pocketing  book  and 
pencil  again.  "And  now  shall  we  order  our/n'Z- 
tata  and  salad?  You  look  ...  is  it  polite  to 
tell  a  young  Italian  lady  that  she  looks  hungry  ?" 

"I  am  very  hungry  indeed,"  said  Dione. 

They  had  a  truly  idyllic  meal  together  at  one 
of  the  stone  tables  Li  front  of  the  osteria,  with  the 
lindens  sending  little  disks  of  sunlight  to  float 
over  their  pretty  food,  and  the  weather-faded 
frescos  of  the  Stations  of  the  Cross  glowing  upon 
them  from  the  arcade  to  the  right.  "It  takes 
two  poets  to  get  up  a  god-like  hunger,"  said  Kent. 
"There  was  an  English  poet  once  named  Shelley, 
and  he  would  eat  bowl  after  bowl  of  your  pan  cot, 
that  heavenly  good  soup  made  of  stale  bread  and 
water  and  butter  and  ...  I  must  say  that  for 
me,  the  last  touch  is  some  onions." 

"I  like  onions  in  it,  too,"  said  Dione,  gravely. 

Then  they  strolled  about  awhile,  and  afterward 
had  a  royal  game  of  boccie,  which  Dione  won. 

126 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"You  look  like  Atalanta,  running  to  see  where 
you  have  placed  your  ball  and  how  far  you've 
sent  mine  off." 

"Atalanta  ran  after  golden  apples,  not  wooden 
balls,"  said  Dione,  gayly. 

"Well,  balls  are  golden  when  one  throws  them 
like  that,"  retorted  he. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  they  started 
back  to  Vareggio. 

As  they  came  out  on  the  mountain-top  among 
the  heather  and  the  slight,  nymph-like  birches, 
Dione  looked  up  at  the  sky,  half  covered  now  by 
little,  round,  white  clouds,  set  close  together  like 
new-baked  loaves  of  bread  on  a  blue  platter. 

"  '  Quand'i  Nivul  fan'  pan', 

O  pieuv  incoeu,  o  pieuv  diman','" 

sang  she  in  dialect. 

"And  what  may  that  mean  ?"  asked  Kent. 

"'When  the  clouds  make  bread,  or  are  like 
loaves  of  bread,  it  will  rain  to-day  or  to 
morrow,'  "  she  translated. 

"Then  I  was  just  in  the  nick  of  time  with  our 
beautiful  day,"  said  Kent. 

"Yes,"  said  Dione,  "it  has  truly  been  a  beau 
tiful  day." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THOUGHT  Kent  that  evening,  after  he  had 
read  over  the  fortnight's  work  in  order  to 
put  himself  in  a  fitting  mood  for  the  morrow, 
and  sat  smoking  a  meditative  pipe  on  his  bal 
cony: 

"It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  me  that  Dione  is 
only  the  potential  mother  of  Aphrodite  and  not 
Aphrodite  herself.  It  is  a  very  fortunate  thing, 
indeed,  that  that  striking  and  original  young 
woman  doesn't  appeal  to  me  in  any  of  the  more 
obvious  human  fashions.  She  has  a  mind, 
though,  and  an  imagination.  .  .  .  And  she  is  of 
the  heroically  unsentimental  type.  ...  I  won 
der,"  he  broke  off,  addressing  the  Sasso  di  Ferro, 
"what  there  is  about  her  that  reminds  me  of  you, 
my  darkling  friend  ?  Something  fateful  and  im 
pending,  as  if  it  would  not  be  a  good  thing  to 
take  little,  jocose  liberties  with  either  of  you? 
'The  gods  that  are  made  in  our  image,'  she  said. 
.  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  that  young  person  could  be  quite 
as  ruthless  as  your  genuine  goddess  on  occasion, 
I  venture  to  surmise.  .  .  .  It's  in  her  brows  and 
the  whole  look  of  her.  .  .  .  Rather  an  over- 

128 


PAN'S    MOUNTAI  N 

whelming  being  to  fall  in  love  with.  ...  A  sort 
of  cross  between  Medea  and  her  own  Diana. 
Thank  the  Lord,  my  lady  Lisa,  you  own  me,  body 
and  soul,  for  the  present.  ...  I  haven't  so  much 
as  a  flicker  to  give  any  one  else." 

For  he  was,  indeed,  wholly  enamoured  of 
La  Gioconda,  as  he  always  was  of  his  last  creation 
in  woman. 

"The  mother,  though  .  .  ."  he  mused  on. 
"There's  a  nasty  little  person  with  a  nasty  little 
mind.  .  .  .  And  scheming!"  ...  He  whistled. 
"She's  laying  her  net  for  me  and  Gigino  with  all 
the  persistence,  if  not  the  skill,  of  the  fishermen 
of  Isola  Pescatori.  .  .  .  What  a  little  paste  of  low 
thoughts  and  aims!  .  .  .  She's  like  maccaroni 
that's  been  hung  to  dry  where  things  aren't  clean. 
It's  extraordinary  how  that  woman  annoys  me. 
.  .  .  When  one  looks  at  that  clean,  clear  girl,  and 
reflects  who  gave  her  birth,  one  rather  believes  in 
reincarnation  and  'sich.'  .  .  .  Yes,  rather.  .  .  . 
She's  like  the  famous  lily  on  the  dunghill,  .  .  . 
for  that  mother  of  hers  swims  in  sensuality,  .  .  . 
breathes  it  in,  ...  gives  it  out ;  laps  it  up  out 
of  any  puddle,  I'll  wager.  .  .  .  There  goes  that 
plump,  blue-jowlcd  priest  for  his  evening  rubber 
of  briscola  with  her  now.  .  .  .  Her  mows,  prob 
ably,  as  the  village  says.  It's  a  stark  shame  that 
the  girl  should  have  to  live  in  that  crawling  at 
mosphere.  There's  Gigino  now,  .  .  .  really  one 
of  the  best  chaps  I  know.  .  .  .  And  he's  quite 
9  129 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

silly  about  her  already.  .  .  .  If  she  were  to  marr 
him,  that  would  be  a  good  solution." 

Then  he  laughed,  emptying  his  pipe  over  th 
railing,  and  looking  at  the  Sasso  di  Ferro. 

"Somehow,"  said  he,  "I  should  as  soon  thin! 
of  your  marrying  Gigino.  But  I  wonder  wha 
she  will  do  in  the  end?  It  isn't  easy  to  foresei 
the  fate  of  a  misplaced  creature  like  that." 

That  night,  when  he  fell  asleep, he  dreamed  tha 
Dione  was  playing  boccie  along  the  alley  of  moon 
light  with  the  Sasso  di  Ferro,  which,  as  she  spec 
the  swift  gold  balls,  opened  huge  jaws  of  ston< 
and  snapped  them  up. 

In  the  mean  time  the  blue-jowled  priest  ha( 
taken  a  turning  to  the  left,  out  of  Kent's  line  o 
vision,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Ghiffa,  and  th< 
partner  of  Madame  Rupin  in  her  evening  garni 
was  none  other  than  Cecca. 

Cecca  was  healthily  sleepy  after  a  long  day' 
work,  for  she  kept  the  House  of  the  Weasel  as  < 
cat  its  fur,  and  this  added  to  her  Sciora's  ill-humor 
she  being  already  very  cross,  because  his  priesth 
duties  had  called  her  plump  friend  to  Ghiffa. 

"Oca!  .  .  .  Owl!  ..."  cried  she,  when,  fo 
the  fourth  time,  Cecca,  with  closed  eyes,  hac 
bowed  politely  to  a  lead  without  producing  he 
own  card.  "Am  I  to  sit  here  and  have  my  owi 
servant  snore  in  my  face?  .  .  .  Wake  up  thi 
instant!  You  do  nothing  but  sleep,  as  thougl 
you  were  already  in  your  dotage  ..." 

130 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"  Speriamo  bene  .  .  .  let  us  hope  for  the  best," 
said  Cecca,  philosophically,  and  took  the  lead 
with  the  ace  of  diamonds,  which  happened  to  be 
briscola,  or  trumps,  on  this  occasion.  Now  it  was 
early  in  the  hand,  and  this  was  really  a  stupid 
thing  for  Cecca  to  do. 

"You  seem  to  enjoy  giving  me  your  cen- 
tesimi"  remarked  her  mistress,  sourly. 

'  'Ciao  /"said  Cecca.  ' '  It's  all  in  the  day's  work." 

"You're  an  oca  ...  a  goose,"  said  her  mis 
tress  again,  which  in  Italian  is  insulting. 

"Two  geese  go  well  together,"  remarked  Cecca, 
imperturbably. 

With  this  she  caught  the  ace  of  spades  and  the 
three  of  hearts  in  succession — an  excellent  play. 
"Hold  your  impertinent  tongue  or  I'll  throw  it  at 
you,"  said  Madame  Rupin,  angrily. 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game  also,"  replied 
Cecca.  Then  for  the  fifth  time  her  broad  lids 
closed,  her  gay  headkerchief  drooped  forward, 
and  she  saluted  her  mistress's  lead  with  a  stately 
bow  and  snore. 

Madame  Rupin  caught  up  the  cards  in  both 
hands  and  flung  them  in  her  face. 

"Per  bacco!"  cried  Cecca,  springing  to  her  feet. 
"I've  a  mind  to  slap  your  hands  for  you  as  when 
you  were  little.  ...  I  am  not  a  beast  of  the 
field  for  you  to  abuse.  I  am  a  Christian. 

"Act  like  one,  then,"  said  the  lady,  sullenly, 
but  rather  sobered. 


"It  is  an  hour  that  all  Christians  should  be  in 
their  beds,  and  I  shall  act  like  one  by  going  to 
mine,"  retorted  Cecca,  and  she  went  toward  the 
door. 

But  this  Madame  Rupin  could  not  endure. 
She  was  wide  awake,  she  was  very  fretful,  and 
she  could  never  remain  alone  for  three  minutes 
together,  especially  at  night. 

"Na,  na,  Cecca  mia,"  coaxed  she,  going  after 
her.  "Can't  you  see  I'm  just  like  a  poor,  cross 
baby  ?  .  .  .  I  mean  no  harm.  .  .  .  There's  the  bit 
of  real  lace  for  neck  and  sleeves  that  my  friend  the 
Signora  Bossi  sent  me  from  Venice  .  .  .  take  that 
on  your  way  to  bed,  and  think  TLO  more  about  it." 

"A  fine  sight  I  should  be  with  lace  to  my  gullet 
and  paws,"  growled  Cecca,  still  wrathful.  "That 
is  an  ugly  custom  that  you  have  had  ever  since 
you  were  a  child — to  do  one  an  injury,  and^then 
offer  some  bit  of  trash  for  a  salve." 

"Here,  then,"  said  her  Sciora,  with  a  really 
heroic  effort,  for  she  was  a  genuine  miser  and  as 
cunning  as  a  magpie  about  it,  "here  is  a  whole 
franc.  Get  with  it  whatever  you  like,  and  be 
pleasant  again." 

"Mph!"  was  Cecca's  only  remark.  Indeed, 
Madame  Rupin  had  been  known  to  put  a  ten- 
centime  piece  in  a  beggar's  bowl  and  take  out  a 
five-centime  one.  It  was  the  second  time  in  her 
life  that  her  mistress  had  given  her  money,  and 
Cecca  took  the  coin  and  pocketed  it. 

132 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  will  do  to  get  the  tousetia  some  fal-lal,", 
thought  she. 

Dione  certainly  had  not  many  "fal-lals,"  and 
when  Cecca  went  over  her  wardrobe  every  week 
to  brush  and  darn,  her  only  consolation  for  its 
meagreness  was  the  fact  that  her  Scior  had  tied 
up  the  girl's  modest  dot  before  he  died  so  that  his 
wife  could  not  touch  it. 

"Very  well,"  she  then  said,  coming  back  into 
the  room.  "But  I  wish  to  make  it  clear  that  I 
will  not  play  another  game  with  those  cards  that 
you  flung  in  my  face." 

"Surely,  surely,"  said  her  mistress,  with 
unusual  meekness.  "We  will  get  out  the 
tarot  cards  instead,  and  you  shall  tell  my  fort 
une." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  Friday,  and  that  is  a  sure  day  for 
them,"  said  Cecca,  interested  at  once  in  anything 
occult. 

Madame  Rupin  took  a  rather  grimy  pack  of 
the  old  fortune  -  telling  cards  from  the  table 
drawer  and  handed  them  to  Cecca,  who  shuffled 
them  elaborately  and  made  her  mistress  cut  them 
three  times. 

"Eh,"  said  she,  regarding  the  first  cut,  "parole 
piccanti  (sharp  words).  It  seems  to  me  that 
those  have  come  to  pass  already.  And  what  is 
this?  A  letter?  .  .  .  Ciao!  .  .  .  and  a  small 
sum  of  money  .  .  .  that  will  probably  come  in 
the  letter." 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Madame  Rupin's  bright  eyes  of  a  ouisteetee  be 
came  brighter. 

"They  are  good  cuts,  eh,  cam?"  said  she. 

"Pazienza  ...  let  us  wait  for  the  others  be 
fore  we  say  that,"  replied  Cecca. 

She  "laid"  them  peasant  fash  on. 

"What  is  in  your  arms,"  said  she,  as  she  put 
them  down.  "What  is  under  your  feet,  what  is 
coming  to  you,  and  what  is  running  after  you," 
and  she  continued  thus  until  all  the  cards  were 
on  the  table  in  little  separate  piles.  Then  lift 
ing  them,  she  scrutinized  each  packet  closely. 

"What  is  in  your  arms,"  said  she,  "is  a  little 
money,  perhaps  an  illness  or  a  journey,  and  a 
priest." 

Madame  Rupin  darted  a  sharp,  sideward 
glance.  Cecca's  face  was  expressionless.  She 
laid  down  the  cards,  however,  face  up,  so  that 
her  mistress  could  see  that  the  card  for  "priest" 
was  really  among  them. 

"What  is  coming  is  a  dark  man  and  a  fair  man, 
and  some  displeasure." 

"Ai,  air  exclaimed  Madame  Rupin.  "It  is 
the  Varoning  and  the  Englishman.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
they  are  going  to  quarrel  over  Dione." 

"Perhaps.  These  other  cards  are  insignificant. 
Some  woman  is  jealous  of  you."  The  Sciora  sim 
pered  .  ' '  And  there  is  a  message  about  a  relative. ' ' 

"Perhaps  my  cousin  Peppino  is  going  to  die 
and  leave  me  something." 

134 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  will  be  his  nightcap,  then,"  said  Cecca, 
"for  the  priests  have  got  all  the  rest  while  he  is 
alive.  What  is  running  after  you  is  a  marriage." 
(Madame  Rupin  nodded  vigorously.)  "Some 
fastidi  (bothers)  and  three  lovers."  (Madame 
Rupin  shrugged.)  "Under  your  feet  is  chiac- 
chere  (gossip) ,  a  dark  man,  and  a  present." 

' '  Minga  mal ' '  (Not  bad) ,  said  the  lady.     ' '  Now 
do  them  for  Dione." 

Cecca  did  them  for  Dione,  but  they  did  not 
come  out  very  satisfactorily. 

"Even  the  cards  won't  go  right  for  that  girl!" 
cried  her  mother,  peevishly,  mixing  them  all  up 
as  they  lay  spread  on  the  table.  "Madonna 
mia!  Why  couldn't  she  have  been  a  boy?  .  .  . 
There  is  Clelia  Morelli  with  a  fine  son  who  is  the 
joy  of  her  heart,  and  he  only  eighteen  and  has 
his  ballerina  like  any  other  man  about  town,  and 
earns  money  which  he  shares  with  his  mamma 
.  .  .  while  I  have  only  this  great,  gawky  girl  who 
turns  up  her  nose  at  a  rich  Scior  like  the  Varon- 
ing.  .  .  .  God  help  her  if  the  Englishman  don't 
take  her!" 

"You  speak  because  you  have  a  mouth,  and 
not  because  there  is  any  reason  in  your  words  at 
all,"  said  Cecca,  indignantly.  "That  English 
man  or  any  other  man  may  thank  the  Virgin  on 
his  two  knees  if  such  a  fine  girl  as  your  daughter 
deigns  to  look  at  him.  You  do  not  deserve  to 
have  such  a  daughter,  and  some  day  God  will 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

punish  you  properly  for  speaking  and  feeling  as 
you  do  about  her!" 

"You  are  always  taking  my  words  crossways," 
protested  her  mistress.  "Shouldn't  a  mother  be 
anxious  to  see  her  daughter  well  married  ?  And 
shouldn't  she  be  vexed  when  her  daughter  won't 
go  to  a  single  ball  or  party,  or  anywhere  that 
she  might  meet  eligible  young  men,  and  then 
when  two  come  dropping  out  of  the  clouds,  as 
it  were,  right  on  her  nose,  she  turns  it  up  at 
them?" 

"You  should  be  more  exact,"  said  Cecca.  "It 
does  not  seem  to  me  that  she  turns  up  her  nose  at 
the  Englishman." 

"Does  it  not?  Does  it  not?  .  .  .  You  think 
that  she  likes  him,  cara  miaf  .  .  .  You  know  her 
so  much  better  than  I  do." 

"And  that's  a  nice  thing  for  a  mother  to  say, 
but  the  Madonna  knows  that,  this  time,  you  are 
exact." 

"But  do  you?     Do  you?" 

"They  certainly  appear  to  me  to  get  on  quite 
well  together,"  admitted  Cecca,  grudgingly. 

"Oh,  if  it  would  only  come  to  pass!"  cried  the 
other,  clasping  her  small  hands.  "He  is  rich, 
and  a  great  Scior  in  his  own  country,  you  must 
know,  Cecca." 

"And  is  that  all  you  ask  for  in  the  husband  of 
your  only  child  ?"  said  Cecca.  "Besides,  you  are 
strangely  willing  to  believe  hearsay,  it  seems 

136 


to  me,  when  it  comes  to  choosing  this  hus 
band." 

"Cecca!  Cecca!"  cried  Madame  Rupin,  seiz 
ing  her  arm.  "Let  me  implore  you  ...  en 
courage  it!  .  .  .  encourage  it!  ...  Don't  put 
any  notions  in  her  head  more  than  she  has  there 
already.  The  Varonis  are  great  Sciori  in  Milan, 
and  what  they  have  told  me  about  him  you  may 
believe.  Do  not  do  anything  to  interfere,  for  the 
love  of  God.  Promise  me." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  against  the  child's  happi 
ness,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Cecca,  tartly.  "It 
would  be  better  that  you  should  do  something  for 
it  while  she  is  with  you.  Never  have  I  seen  a 
peasant  woman  so  anxious  to  fling  her  child  into 
the  arms  of  the  first  man  who  comes  along  as  you 
are.  I  believe  that  peasants  are  better  mothers 
than  Sciori,  anyway.  And  the  Virgin  hears  me." 

With  this  she  put  back  the  tarot  cards  in  the 
drawer,  shut  it  with  a  bang,  lit  two  candles,  and 
bore  her  mistress  protesting  off  to  the  bed,  beside 
which  she  had  to  sit  nodding  until  that  exacting 
lady  fell  asleep. 

All  this  time  Dione,  at  her  open  window  in  her 
nightgown,  had  been  gazing  at  Pan's  Mountain, 
and  living  over  what  was  certainly  the  most  re 
markable  day  of  her  life. 

She  had  spoken  as  she  had  never  been  able  to 
speak  before,  even  to  Cecca,  and  some  one  had 

'37 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

listened  as  sympathetically  as  even  Cecca  did  and 
with  far  more  comprehension.  Yes  .  .  .  and  he 
had  called  her  a  poet  ...  a  poet  had  called  her 
a  poet.  It  was  not  so,  of  course  ...  he  was 
mistaken  .  .  .  her  fancies  were  not  poems,  but 
all  the  same  it  was  delightful  to  think  that  he 
had  called  her  so.  And  she  liked  him.  She  was 
quite  sure  that  she  liked  him  now.  Ever  since  it 
had  occurred  to  her  that  her  father  would  have 
liked  him  she  had  been  quite  sure  of  her  own  feel 
ing  toward  him.  .  .  .  Was  he  the  mate  that  Pan 
had  sent  her  ?  .  .  .  Was  he  ?  Was  he  ?  .  .  . 

Love  had  never  touched  the  girl,  though  she 
guessed  right  well  what  love  might  be,  and  she 
was  certainly  not  in  love  with  this  Englishman 
who  looked  so  glad  to  be  alive  and  laughed  so 
joyously.  But  she  might  be  ...  yes,  that  was 
very  possible.  .  .  .  And  how  strong  he  was  and 
tall.  A  man  .  .  .  yes,  a  man.  If  she  were  to 
dance  with  him  she  could  not  look  down  upon  the 
top  of  his  head,  that  was  certain.  Yes  .  .  .  she 
was  tall  and  dark,  and  he  was  tall  and  fair.  ' '  If 
we  were  to  love  each  other  and  to  marry  we  would 
have  splendid  sons,"  reflected  Dione,  the  candid. 
Then  she  said,  "Evoe  Pan !"  to  the  Sasso  di  Ferro, 
and  went  also  to  her  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

KENT  called  two  or  three  times  on  the  Rupins 
during  the  next  fortnight,  but  he  went  late 
in  the  afternoon  when  his  work  was  over,  and  he 
did  not  see  Dione  except  casually  in  the  presence 
of  other  visitors,  until  the  second  Friday  follow 
ing  the  day  of  their  walk  to  the  Trinita. 

On  this  afternoon  he  went  down  toward  five 
o'clock  for  his  usual  swim  in  the  lake,  and  when 
he  reached  the  Osteria  del  Pesce  d'Oro,  there  was 
Dione  on  the  beach  in  a  much-worn,  white  serge 
bathing-dress,  with  Cecca  keeping  guard. 

Then  Kent  was  exceedingly  glad  that  he  had 
brought  his  own  bathing-suit  with  him,  though 
he  had  left  it  with  Ping's  relative  in  the  osteria 
after  the  first  day,  and  adopted  the  little  striped 
breeks  usually  worn  on  the  lake.  He  scurried 
into  this  neglected  costume  now,  and  ran  down 
to  the  shore. 

' '  What  luck,  Signorina ! ' '  called  he.  "We  shall 
have  a  famous  swim  together  if  you  really  swim 
as  well  as  you  play  boccie." 

Cecca,  who  was  standing  close  to  Dione,  hold 
ing  her  young  Sciora's  cloak  over  one  shoulder 


PAN'S    MOUNTAI  N 

and  knitting  on  a  massive  green  stocking,  gave 
him  a  piercing  glance.  She  seemed  reassured  by 
what  she  saw,  for  to  herself  she  said, ' '  Ciao  !  The 
Virgin  prosper  it,"  and  went  on  with  her  knitting. 

"I  can  swim  better  than  I  can  play  boccie," 
said  Dione  to  Kent,  "and  I  am  only  waiting  for 
Ping  to  bring  me  a  pair  of  new  cord-sandals  from 
Ghiffa,  because  the  sole  has  worn  off  from  one 
of  mine,  and  it  is  not  possible  to  walk  on  this 
beach  in  bare  feet." 

"No,  truly,"  said  Kent.  "I  tried  it  the  first 
day  and  cut  my  foot  quite  a  bit." 

He  liked  her  careless  pose  as  she  sat  with  her 
feet  stretched  out  in  front  of  her  on  a  tuft  of 
grass.  She  wore,  no  stockings,  and  her  young 
Dian's  legs  shone  firm  and  polished  from  the 
knee  down.  Kent  smiled,  recalling  the  lines  of 
buxom  old  Herrick,  in  which  he  praises  his 
"Julia's  Icgge"  for  being  "as  white  and  hairlesse 
as  an  egge."  What  a  gorgeous  young  pagan  she 
was,  to  be  sure! — as  unself conscious,  as  clean- 
cut,  as  fearless. 

Here  Cecca  said: 

"Will  you  please,  Sciora  Dione,  to  look  at  that 
sky?" 

She  pointed  with  her  needles,  and  both  turned 
and  looked  at  the  sky  toward  Laveno.  It  was 
darkening  ominously  under  a  great  hood  of  cloud. 

"It  looks  as  though  there  might  be  a  temporale 
(thunder-storm)  later,"  said  Dione. 

140 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Not  much  later,"  said  Cecca.  "'Soon,'  is  the 
word  for  what  is  coming,  in  my  opinion.  You 
had  better  think  twice  before  you  go  for  that 
swim  of  yours." 

"Oh,  to  swim  in  the  beginning  of  a  temper  ale! 
...  I  should  love  that,"  said  Dione. 

"Yes,  you  have  a  gift  of  loving  what  is  not  best 
for  you,"  grumbled  her  nurse. 

"By  Jove!  ...  I  should  like  that,  too,"  ex 
claimed  Kent.  "How  fast  it's  coming!" 

Here  Ping  arrived  breathless,  the  new  sandals 
extended  before  him. 

"Your  shoes,  Sciora  Dione,"  panted  he;  "but 
only  look  what  a  big  fellow  is  coming  yonder. 
.  .  .  You  won't  take  your  swim  in  the  teeth  of 
that  boy." 

"Give  me  the  shoes,  please,"  said  Dione. 
"Yes,  I  am  going  to  swim  before  the  storm 
breaks,  and  this  Signore  is  coming  with  me." 

"Hin  mat!"  (They're  crazy!)  cried  Ping,  turn 
ing  helplessly  to  Cecca. 

"If  you  want  her  to  do  a  thing,  just  urge  her 
not  to,"  replied  she.  "But  when  the  teeth  are 
shut  the  tongue  keeps  warm,  so  I  say  no  more." 

The  inverna,  already  strong,  was  increasing 
every  moment.  The  mountains  took  on  a  sullen 
blue  and  the  water  a  livid  olive  color. 

Dione  had  slipped  on  the  new  shoes,  and,  now 
standing  up,  began  to  walk  toward  the  lake.  Pier 
head  was  wound  about  three  times  by  a  snood  of 

141 


black  ribbon,  leaving  free  only  a  few  short  locks 
to  lift  and  fringe  out  in  the  wind.  She  waded  in 
for  a  few  yards,  then  threw  herself  forward  as 
upon  a  lover's  breast.  Kent  went  in  beside  her, 
and  they  began  to  swim,  stroke  for  stroke,  tow 
ard  the  coming  storm. 

They  heard  the  dull  artillery  of  thunder  far  off 
toward  Milan,  then  nearer;  then  came  a  lurid 
flicker  over  all  the  southeastern  sky,  as  though 
a  valkyr's  stallion  had  nickered  his  gold  hide. 
There  was  a  nearer  flash,  more  lancelike  now. 
The  air  fiends  were  using  spears.  As  they  clove 
on  through  the  heaping  waves,  now  in  the  trough, 
now  buoyant  on  a  crest,  the  dark  Stone  of  Iron 
seemed  to  swell,  to  tower,  to  topple  toward 
them. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  the  lightning?"  asked 
Kent.  ' ' Shall  we  turn  back  ?" 

"I  like  what  frightens,"  answered  she,  "but 
I  am  never  afraid  of  lightning." 

They  had  to  shout  to  make  themselves  heard 
above  the  thunder  and  the  wind  that  snatched 
the  words  from  their  lips. 

And  now  the  Storm  Witch  came  at  a  bound, 
with  skirts  spread  in  either  hand.  She  howled, 
and  shook  out  her  hair,  and  the  sky  was  darkened 
to  the  zenith.  Above  Laveno  a  flag  of  green 
glare  unrolled.  The  lake  quaked  and  quickened 
.  .  .  showed  its  fangs.  All  the  clouds,  so  long 
forming  on  the  Lombard  plain,  pressed  forward 

142 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

together,  a  great  clan,  gathering  to  the  drums  of 
thunder  and  the  trumpets  of  the  wind. 

"This  is  living!"  said  Kent,  and  Dione,  in  her 
heart,  said,  "Evoe  Pan!  ...  It  is  my  mate!  .  .  . 
It  is  my  mate!" 

Then  all  at  once,  with  an  unspeakable  glare 
that  blinded  them  for  the  moment,  Pan's  Moun 
tain  seemed  to  split  from  crown  to  base,  and  spat 
forth  a  stream  of  liquid  fire. 

Immediately  after,  a  vague  sound  of  shouting 
reached  them.  He  looked  round  and  saw  Cecca 
waving  frantic  arms  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 

"Your  old  nurse  is  frightened  .  .  .  Shall  we 
go  back?"  he  said. 

Dione  turned  at  once,  and,  urged  by  the  fierce 
waves,  they  won  easily  to  shore. 

Masciett,  who  had  been  scouting  along  the 
beach,  uttering  his  high-pitched,  throaty  wolf- 
cry  of  anxiety  from  time  to  time,  sprang  into  the 
lake  and  swam  some  yards  to  meet  them. 

He  leaped  upon  Dione,  licking  her  wet  hands, 
fondling  them  with  open  jaws  and  delicate  press 
ure  of  teeth,  as  though  he  had  thought  never  to 
see  her  again. 

Cecca,  scolding,  cast  the  long  cloak  about  her, 
and  all  three,  with  the  dog  still  leaping  in  ecstasy, 
hurried  into  the  osteria. 

And  now  the  cloud  burst,  and  the  rain  came 
with  the  wild  violence  of  an  angry  woman's  tears. 
The  windows  thrummed,  the  waves  were  shat- 

143 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

tered.  They  were  shut  as  in  a  streaming  sphere 
of  gray  crystal.  Mountains,  shore,  the  near  trees 
— all  disappeared  as  by  a  wand-wave. 

"Zia,"  said  Ping  to  his  old  aunt,  with  a  lordly 
gesture,  after  Dione  and  Kent  had  changed  their 
bathing-suits  and  descended  again,  "bring  wine 
and  cake  .  .  .  these  Sciori  need  refreshment 
after  such  a  bath  as  that." 

All  drank  some  of  the  rough,  acrid  red  wine 
that  Ping  persisted  in  calling  "Chianti,"  but  they 
would  have  no  cakes,  and  a  very  little  of  the  wine 
sufficed. 

"Ancora,  ancora,"  urged  Ping.  "Water  for 
the  skin  perhaps,  but  wine  for  the  vitals.  Eh! 
The  Sciori  are  like  our  saying  about  risotto  .  .  . 
'It  flourished  in  water,  it  must  be  drowned  in 
wine.'  ...  I  pray  you,  drink  .  .  .  drink  ..." 

And  when  they  refused  with  many  "Crazies," 
he  undertook  the  task  for  them. 

"  Alia  sua  salute,"  said  he,  pompously,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  gulp  glass  after  glass,  chattering  in  be 
tween.  As  he  had  already  imbibed  freely  of  beer 
in  Ghiffa  with  a  friend,  these  potations  soon  had 
their  effect. 

The  poor  zia  looked  anxious ,  and  conferred  in 
low  tones  with  Cecca,  who  said,  "Ma!"  and 
"Bestial"  (Beast)  at  gruff  intervals,  and  often 
opened  the  door  to  see  whether  the  storm  was 
abating  so  that  they  could  make  their  escape. 

"Aid!"  gushed  Ping.  " 'Tis  well  that  you 
144 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

should  shelter  even  in  my  poor  inn  during  such 
a  storm  as  this.  Sixty  trees  did  I  see  go  down  at 
the  Villa  Ada  in  just  such  a  buff  within  eight 
minutes.  Crrrk!  Paff  There  they  were  lying 
on  the  ground  like  a  man  with  a  pain  in  his  belly 
.  .  .  and  they  were  not  common  trees  .  .  .  but, 
Sciori,  as  one  might  say  .  .  .  brought  from  all 
parts  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Christofen!  that  was  a 
sight.  .  .  ." 

"Does  he  annoy  you?"  said  Kent,  aside  to 
Dione. 

"No,  he  is  only  a  little  tipsy.  Let  him 
talk." 

"Aia!  Aia!"  continued  the  Ping,  "to  think  of 
a  young  Sciora  and  a  forestiero  going  to  swim  in 
the  teeth  of  a  storm  like  this!  One  would  say 
that  they  were  saved  for  something  .  .  .  for  each 
other,  perhaps  .  .  .  excuse  my  little  jest  .  .  . 
one  gets  jolly  in  a  storm  like  this.  Zzt!  It  goes 
through  one's  blood  like  the  lightning  through  the 
air.  .  .  .  Drink,  Sciora  .  .  .  drink,  Scior,  I  pray 
you.  Drink  with  me  to  your  own  health  and  a 
fine  wedding!" 

''Bestial"  said  Cecca  in  his  ear,  with  the  angry 
whisper  of  a  bee  that  has  blundered  into  an 
empty  jug,  "you're  ciuch  (drunk).  If  you  don't 
shut  up,  I'm  a  strong  woman,  and  I'll  lug  you  off 
and  put  you  to  bed  ..." 

"She  says  I'm  ciuch,"  announced  Ping,  with  a 
rapturous  smile.  "Now  hear  the  truth  ...  all 

10  145 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

people  who  call  others  drunk  are  always  drunk 
themselves  ..." 

What  Cecca  would  have  replied  to  this  will 
never  be  known,  for  here  the  door  opened,  and 
Varoni,  who  had  only  that  day  returned  from 
England,  came  into  the  room.  He  looked  pale, 
and  his  kindly  eyes  were  anxious.  He  carried 
two  umbrellas,  and  over  his  arm  was  a  soggy  mass 
of  shawls. 

" Per  bacco,  Gigino!"  said  Kent.  "Did  you 
swim  here?" 

"Very  nearly,"  replied  his  friend,  smiling  with 
relief  as  he  caught  sight  of  Dione.  "Come,  stai, 
car  of  ...  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here  under 
shelter,  Signorina.  Your  Signora  Mamma  was 
very  alarmed.  She  thought  that  you  might  even 
be  in  the  lake." 

"I  have  been  in  the  lake,"  said  Dione,  "but 
I  would  naturally  come  out  again  in  such  a  storm. 
.  .  .  You  are  most  kind,  Signore,  to  come  to  see 
about  me.  Is  it  possible  that  la  mamma  sent  you 
out  in  such  weather?  I  am  very,  very  sorry." 

Dione  knew  exactly  how  anxious  Madame 
Rupin  had  been,  and  why  she  had  sent  poor 
Varoni  down  the  mountain-side  in  a  temporale, 
and  she  knew,  moreover,  that  Kent  also  knew. 
She  felt  such  a  dumb  rage  against  her  mother  as 
shook  her  inwardly. 

"Eh,  la  Peppa!"  cried  Ping,  before  Varoni 
could  do  more  than  begin  his  protestations. 

146 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Here  are  two  goldfish  in  the  Pesce  d'Oro  for 
the  first  time!  Dip  in  your  pretty  net,  Sciora 
Dione!  If  one  escapes  you'll  get  t'other!" 

"Ping,"  said  Dione,  calmly,  "you  are  very 
drunk,  indeed.  You  will  go  away  at  once." 

"I  go,"  said  Ping,  weaving  a  devious  way  to 
the  door  of  an  inner  room,  "but  do  not  forget  to 
take  my  advice,  Sciora.  Dip  in  your  net!  .  .  . 
Dip  in  your  net!" 

Kent  had  a  real  heart-leap  of  admiration  at  the 
girl's  manner.  He  thought  that  she  behaved  as 
a  young  queen  might  whose  chamberlain  had 
suddenly  gone  daft  and  struck  her  in  the  pres 
ence  of  ambassadors. 

She,  in  the  mean  time,  was  looking  quietly  out 
of  the  window.  ' '  I  think, ' '  she  now  said,  turning 
round,  "that  we  shall  be  able  to  start  in  a  few 
moments.  These  sudden  storms  on  the  lake 
often  go  as  quickly  as  they  come." 

And  indeed  within  fifteen  minutes  they  were 
able  to  return  to  Vareggio. 

They  managed  to  survive  the  nauseously  sweet 
gratitude  of  Madame  Rupin  for  the  restoration 
of  her  "Only  joy,"  her  "Only  treasure,"  and 
Varoni  returned  with  Kent  to  his  lodgings  in 
Ceredo. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FORD!     What  a  creature  to  have  mothered 

I—*  that  girl!"  exclaimed  Kent,  '  as  they 
tramped  off  together.  "I  can't  get  over  it." 

"Yes,  is  it  not  so,  caro  mio?"  asked  Varoni, 
eagerly.  "But  the  father  must  have  been  a  re 
markable  man.  ...  Of  the  Servian  nobility,  per 
haps.  .  .  .  For  she  is  like  a  young  empress,  is  she 
not?" 

"Like  a  whole  bunch  of  them,  with  an  abbess 
or  two  thrown  in  ...  for  I  don't  think  I  ever 
saw  any  one  before  that  I  thought  capable  of 
quelling  a  convent  of  obstreperous  nuns.  I 
should  think  that  she's  about  equal  to  any  situa 
tion  in  which  she  might  find  herself.  .  .  .  Did 
you  ever  see  anything  so  perfect  as  her  behavior 
when  that  little  oaf  began  his  coarse  jests  ?  .  .  . 
By  Jove!  That  girl's  got  a  destiny,  I  should 
think,  though  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  guess  what 
it  may  be." 

"It  would  be  very  easy  to  guess  if  I  could  have 
my  part  in  it,"  said  Varoni,  simply. 

"Eh,  Gigino!  .  .  .  You  are  gone  this  time, 
aren't  you?"  said  Kent,  hooking  a  boyish  arm 

148 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

in  his  friend's  and  smiling  down  at  him.  "Up 
to  the  eyes  .  .  .  over  the  brain  .  .  .  eh,  Gigino 
mio?" 

' '  If  you  mean  that  I  am  deeply  and  seriously  in 
love,"  said  Varoni,  soberly,  "it  is  true." 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you'd  have  no  hesi 
tation  about  marrying  a  girl  with  a  mother  like 
that?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Varoni,  unlinking  his  arm  from 
Kent's,  and  standing  still  in  the  road  the  better 
to  look  into  his  eyes — "I  mean  that  I  would 
marry  the  Signorina  Rupin,  no  matter  how  ob 
jectionable  her  relatives  might  be." 

'  'You're  abrick,  Gigino !"  saidhis  friend.warmly. 

"Whether  I  am  a  brick  or  not,  that  is  the  way 
I  feel,"  returned  Varoni. 

"Eh,  Lord!  .  .  .  But  you're  cocksure,"  said 
Kent,  with  a  sigh,  as  they  walked  on. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  in  such  a  case,  to  be 
'cocksure,'  as  you  call  it,  is  the  only  way,"  re 
plied  Varoni. 

"You  remind  me  of  the  chap  in  Hudibras," 
said  Kent,  laughing.  "  'No  dread  could  cool  his 
courage  from  vent 'ring  on  that  dragon  marriage.' 
.  .  .  And  even  if  you  should  live  happy  ever 
after  the  mother  would  be  plenty  of  dragon." 

"There  are  means,"  said  Varoni,  seriously,  "by 
which  the  mother  could  be  suppressed.  It  does 
not  seem  to  me  that  the  Signorina  Rupin  idolizes 

her  mother." 

149 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"No,"  admitted  Kent,  "I  shouldn't  call  it 
idolatry.  She  wouldn't  be  the  girl  she  is  if  she 
didn't  see  through  that  flimsy  little  doll." 

"And  yet,"  said  Varoni,  "she  treats  her  with 
perfect  respect." 

"Of  course.  We've  agreed  that  she  is  a 
remarkable  and  distinguished  personality. 
Well  ..."  He  sighed  again  and  gave  a  long 
stretch,  clasping  his  hands  above  his  head  and 
straining  it  backward — he  never  wore  head 
gear  of  any  sort  in  these  mountains.  "Well,  .  .  . 
all  my  auguri,  but  I  must  say  you're  tackling  a 
big  job,  in  my  humble  opinion." 

"You  mean  the  mother?" 

"I  mean  both,  my  dear.  The  mother  .  .  . 
Ciao!  as  you  say  here.  I  suppose  that  you  and 
your  own  lady  mother  could  squash  her  into  bear- 
ableness  between  you  .  .  .  but  the  daughter.  .  .  . 
Why,  my  child,,  she'd  rule  you  with  a  rod  of  iron." 

"I'd  kiss  the  rod,  then,"  said  Varoni,  smiling. 

"Gad!  ...  I  believe  you  would,  .  .  .  and  en 
joy  it,  too.  You'd  probably  even  make  it  blos 
som,  iron  or  no  iron,  in  the  temperature  of  such 
a  love  as  yours.  But  would  it  be  good  for  her  ? 
You've  got  to  think  of  the  effect  upon  her,  you 
know,"  Kent  wound  up,  mischievously.  "She's 
very  young,  and,  though  it's  hard  to  believe,  I 
suppose  her  character  isn't  formed  yet." 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  Varoni,  "that  anything 
could  injure  her  character." 

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PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Carissimo  mio,  to  hear  you,  one  would  think 
that  you  had  never  been  inoculated.  A  worse 
case  I  never  saw." 

"'Inoculated?'" 

"Yes  .  .  .  with  love,  my  dear.  When  one  has 
had  scarlatina,  I  believe  that  one  cannot  have 
scarlet-fever  so  terribly.  But  your  fever  is  ver 
milion,  crimson,  magenta  ..." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Varoni,  "that  a  man  in  love 
seems  always  a  little  ridiculous  to  one  who  is  out 
of  love,  even  if  that  man  happens  to  be  his  best 
friend." 

"Now,  Gigino,  no  huffiness.  .  .  .  Don't  add 
the  crowning  symptom  to  your  distemper  by 
squabbling  with  me.  I'm  bound  to  talk  in  my 
own  fashion  or  shut  up.  Besides,  you  know  that 
a  thing  as  big  as  this  can't  happen  to  you  without 
affecting  me  earnestly.  Aren't  you  used  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  in  me  yet?" 

"I  dare  say,"  replied  Varoni,  rather  wistfully, 
"that  I  have  not  a  keen  sense  of  humor." 

' ' Hang  humor !"  said  Kent.  ' '  I'll  be  as  grave 
as  Athene's  owl  from  this  on.  Don't  shut  in  on 
yourself,  old  chap;  you'll  nip  my  feelers  in  the 
process  if  you  do.  I've  a  whimsical  way  of  think 
ing,  as  a  rule,  and  with  you  I  just  think  aloud, 
that's  all.  Capisci?" 

"Capisco,"  said  Varoni,  and  gave  his  friend  an 
affectionate  glance  from  his  kindly  black  eyes. 
They  had  reached  Kent's  lodgings  by  this  time, 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

and,  mounting  the  little  stone  staircase,  en 
sconced  themselves  on  the  balcony,  Kent  with 
his  usual  pipe,  Varoni  with  a  long,  black  "Vir 
ginia,"  through  which  ran  a  straw.  "That  is  the 
most  ferocious  weed  for  so  mild  a  man,"  laughed 
Kent.  "It  makes  me  sneeze  even  through  my 
pipe  smoke.  How  you  can  get  through  it  with 
out  convulsions  of  nature  I  can't  see." 

"It  is  perhaps  because  I  am  used  to  it,"  said 
Varoni. 

Before  many  minutes  they  were  back  on  the 
subject  of  Dione  again. 

"Alareec,"  said  Varoni,  suddenly,  looking 
rather  shy,  "there  is  one  reason  why  I  have 
spoken  so  openly  to  you  .  .  .  even  to  the  extent 
of  boring  you  a  little,  I  fear  ..." 

"We've  cut  out  that,  you  know,"  said  Kent. 

"Very  well.  But  I  must  tell  you  this  reason. 
It  was  ...  it  is  ..." 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on  in  a  rush. 

"How  is  it  possible,  I  ask  myself,  that  you  have 
seen  much  of  this  young  girl  during  the  last 
month,  and  yet  are  not  in  love  with  her?" 

"Gigino,"  said  Kent,  earnestly,  "in  your  state 
of  mind  it  would  naturally  seem  impossible  to 
you ;  nevertheless,  let  me  assure  you  that  it  is  a 
fact.  I  admire  her  with  all  my  might — in  truth, 
I  can  honestly  say  that  I  never  admired  any 
woman  more,  young  or  old;  but  as  for  being  in 
love  .  .  .  my  dear  man,  you  are  an  Italian,  and 

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PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

you  should  know  that  it's  the  little  things  and 
not  the  big  things  that  usually  cause  a  man  to 
'fall  in  love,'  as  one  says.  .  .  .  Venus  might  ap 
pear,  a  pearl  of  pearls  in  her  sea-shell,  and  if  she 
had  not  just  that  subtle,  inexplicable  something 
.  .  .  that  word  'sesame'  to  whisper  in  a  man's 
ear,  why  .  .  .  she  might  as  well  have  lain  perdue 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean  for  all  the  power  she 
would  have  over  him.  .  .  .  Signorina  Rupin  is  a 
splendid  creature,  but  for  me  she  hasn't  that  cer 
tain  something  I  spoke  of.  I'm  like  a  man,"  he 
ended,  whimsical  again,  in  spite  of  himself,  "who 
has  a  figurative  cold  in  his  head,  and  so  is  unaf 
fected  by  the  perfume  of  even  the  Rose  of  the 
World." 

Varoni  took  a  sober  whiff  of  his  "Virginia," 
which  required  both  art  and  practice  to  keep  alight. 

"I  am  exceedingly  glad  that  this  is  so,"  said 
he,  "because  it  has  caused  me  some  bad  moments, 
thinking  that  we  might  be  in  love  with  the  same 
woman." 

"You  blessed  old  chap!"  exclaimed  Kent. 
"Think  of  that,  now!" 

"Yes,  to  me  it  would  have  been  a  real  blow," 
said  Varoni.  "But  now  all  is  clear  between  us. 
I  can  go  ahead  with  a  free  heart." 

"Go  ahead  by  all  means,  and  the  Virgin  pros 
per  you.  But,  if  I  may  say  so  without  being  in 
discreet,  I'd  go  ahead  a  bit  slowly.  .  .  .  'Festina 
lente,'  as  the  old  motto  has  it." 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Why?"  asked  Varoni. 

"Well,  do  you  know,  that  young  lady  doesn't 
seem  the  sort  of  person  to  'hustle,' "  replied  Kent. 
"If  I  were  in  your  place  I'd  make  pretty  sure 
that  she  cared,  also,  before  I  spoke." 

"That  is  not  so  important  with  a  young  Italian 
girl,"  said  Varoni.  "They  generally  care  after 
ward,  not  before." 

Kent  sprang  up  in  real  consternation,  stand 
ing  with  his  back  against  the  railing,  and  gazing 
down  into  the  other's  face. 

"Man  .  .  .  man  .  .  ."  said  he,  "do  you  tell 
me  that  you're  going  to  stake  your  whole  life's 
happiness  on  a  throw  with  loaded  dice  ?  Gigino, 
upon  my  word  I  thought  you  had  more  gumption 
than  that." 

"What  is  'gumption'?" 

"'Gumption'  is  a  sort  of  dialect  for  savoir 
faire,  worldly  wisdom,  the  common  sense  that 
comes  from  experience.  But  I  could  shake  you 
for  sitting  there  and  looking  at  me  so  serenely 
with  that  preposterous  notion  in  your  head. 
Marry  that  girl,  and  expect  love  to  come  after! 
.  .  .  Why,  my  dear,  if  she  didn't  love  you  and 
love  you  mighty  hard  to  begin  with,  she'd  hang 
you  up  over  the  bed  in  her  girdle  as  Brunhild 
hung  what's-his-name  on  their  wedding-night. 
.  .  .  Why,  she's  the  sort  to  be  wooed  with  sword 
and  flame.  .  .  .  Garel  If  she  doesn't  love  you 
beforehand!  And  you  with  your  little,  old- 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

wives'  nonsense  about  love  'coming  after.'  'Love 
comes  after '  only  when  it  comes  like  Jill  tumbling 
down-hill  after  Jack.  You  put  me  past  all  pa 
tience  !  .  .  .  Just  you  try  it,  my  dear,  and  when 
you're  a  frozen  mass  of  vain  tears,  and  sit  trying 
to  thaw  out  over  the  cool  stove  of  conjugal  af 
fection,  think  of  me  and  my  'winged  words!"1 

Varoni  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  and  took 
another  whiff  of  his  "Virginia." 

"You  would  know  how  to  woo  her,"  he  said, 
at  last. 

"I?"  said  Kent,  feeling  foolish. 

"Yes,  Alareec,  you.  Be  careful  that  she  does 
not  become  more  interested  in  you  than  you  are 
in  her." 

"Man  alive!"  cried  Kent,  thoroughly  irritated, 
"you  talk  as  if  I  were  some  gaudy  'masher,'  or 
girl-killing  actor  in  the  last  tragedy.  .  .  .  I've 
just  about  as  much  cause  to  'be  careful'  with  the 
Signorina  Rupin  as  .  .  ." 

"You  have,"  he  was  about  to  say,  but  broke 
off  in  time. 

"   ...  as  the  Pope  has,"  he  ended,  lamely. 

'"As  I  have,'  you  were  going  to  say,  were  you 
not?"  asked  his  friend,  undisturbed.  "That  is 
very  true  where  I  am  concerned.  I  have  only 
seen  the  young  lady  twice,  and  I  am  not  a  ro 
mantic  figure  .  .  .  whereas,  you  are  certainly  a 
very  romantic  figure,  and  have  seen  her  con 
stantly  for  a  month." 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"A  romantic  figure!'  ...  Oh,  Lord!"  groaned 
Kent. 

"It  is  true,"  insisted  Varoni.  "A  very  ro 
mantic  figure — good-looking,  fair,  a  poet  of  re 
nown,  a  ..." 

"Shut  up,"  ordered  Kent,  exasperated,  "or 
I'll  drop  you  over  the  balcony,  chair  and  all, 
right  onto  the  Sciora  Laura's  verbena-bed!  It 
takes  you  Latins  in  an  analytical  mood  to  make 
a  chap  feel  an  out-and-out  ass.  ...  Of  all  the 
forlorn  nonsense  ..." 

He  went  inside  growling,  and  fetched  a  fresh 
pipe  which  he  proceeded  to  light,  still  muttering 
in  between  puffs. 

"There  is  no  use  showing  temper,  caro  mio," 
said  Varoni,  with  the  gentle  stolidity  which  often 
served  him  well.  "Such  things  have  to  be  con 
sidered,  and  I  ask  you  to  reflect  how  you  would 
feel  if  so  charming  and  unusual  a  girl  became  un 
happy  on  your  account?" 

"Oh,  damn!"  said  Kent;  and  then  to  temper 
the  remark,  added:  "That's  the  sixth  match  I've 
spent  on  this  beastly  pipe." 

"Yes,  I  ask  you  that,"  repeated  Varoni,  un 
moved. 

"And  I  ask  you  how  you'd  feel  if  I  really  did 
drop  you  onto  those  verbenas?  .  .  .  My  fingers 
are  itching  for  it." 

"Well,"  said  Varoni,  resignedly,  "if  you  won't 
answer,  you  won't.  And  since  you  are  not  in 

156 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

love  with  her,  I  know  that  you  will  be  careful 
with  her  for  my  sake." 

"You  know  a  precious  lot,"  growled  Kent — 
"enough  to  knock  out  the  average  savant,  I 
should  say." 

And  when  Varoni  said  "Prego?"  he  replied, 
curtly : 

"Nothing." 

"Well,  oao,"  said  Varoni,  a  few  minutes  later, 
"I  feel  much  better  for  our  little  talk,  and  I 
must  be  returning  to  Pallanza  or  the  mamma  will 
grow  anxious.  Yes,  I  feel  infinitely  better  since 
we  have  talked  frankly  together." 

"You've  the  advantage  of  me,  then,"  retorted 
Kent ;  but  he  mumbled  so  with  the  pipe  in  a  cor 
ner  of  his  mouth  that  Varoni  said  "Prego?" 
again. 

"I  say  all  right.  Glad  you  feel  so  jolly,"  re 
plied  Kent. 

"Not  'jolly'  precisely,"  said  Varoni,  "but 
easier  in  my  mind — more  satisfied." 

"May  the  Lord  go  on  being  good  to  you." 

"Thank  you,  Alareeco  mio,  e  ciaoT 

"Ciao!"  said  Kent. 

They  had  a  good  hand-clasp,  and  Varoni  went 
away,  leaving  Kent  to  the  company  of  his  pipe 
and  the  Sasso  di  Ferro. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

KENT  soon  finished  his  pipe,  and  stood  with 
folded  arms  upon  the  balcony  -  rail,  watch 
ing  the  triumphing  Maggiore  spread  glory  over 
the  late  battle-field  of  earth,  and  air,  and  water. 
Down  from  the  Alps  of  Switzerland  it  came, 
straight  from  the  north,  and  the  sullen  mareng 
fled  before  it,  a  thing  in  tatters.  So  clear  was  the 
yellow  sky  that  it  seemed  a  great  jasper  being 
purified  in  some  blast-furnace  of  the  upper  gods. 
Against  it  the  mountains  stood  out  clear-cut  and 
fresh,  as  though  just  created.  The  Sasso  reared 
aloft  its  drenched,  dark  folds,  a  giant  refreshed 
with  the  strong  wine  of  tempest. 

Yet  Kent  was  not  thinking  of  the  beauty  upon 
which  he  stared.  He  was  musing  upon  the  heart 
of  man,  that  organ  so  deceitful  and  desperately 
wicked. 

"Othello  said  'goats  and  monkeys,'"  thought 
he,  in  his  usual,  rather  whimsical  fashion.  "I 
won't  go  as  far  as  that,  but  I  do  say  'apes  and 
peacocks.'  .  .  .  Yes,  all  of  us  ...  men  and 
women  and  children,  too.  I  won't  let  them  off, 

158 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

either.  .  .  .  The  kingdom  of  heaven  will  have 
to  be  reconstructed  if  it  is  'of  such'  as  your 
modern  kid.  .  .  .  Yes  ...  in  all  of  us  ... 
something  of  the  ape  ...  something  of  the 
peacock.  .  .  .  And  where  did  I  get  that  'apes 
and  peacocks,'  by-the-way?  ...  Oh  yes!  .  .  . 
I  remember  .  .  .  'And  once  in  three  years 
came  the  navy  of  Tharsish,  bringing  gold  and 
silver,  ivory  and  apes  and  peacocks.'  ...  I 
asked  a  chap  once  who  had  written  that,  and 
he  guessed  Oscar  Wilde.  ...  It  wasn't  poor 
Wilde,  though  ...  it  was  just  the  historian  of 
King  Solomon  in  the  first  Book  of  Kings.  .  .  . 
Yes,  and  they  were  coals  to  Newcastle,  too,  for 
there  was  the  king,  with  apes  and  peacocks  by 
the  hundred  already  in  his  heart.  .  .  .  'One  man 
among  a  thousand'  he  had  found,  said  he,  but 
'not  a  woman  among  all  those.'  O  king,  live 
forever!  .  .  .  With  permission,  you  did  not  seek 
her  with  your  usual  wisdom.  .  .  .  Who  were  you, 
with  your  love  of  strange  women — your  Moa- 
bites,  and  Ammonites,  and  Edomites,  and  Zi- 
donians  .  .  .  your  Pharaoh's  daughter  and  your 
seven  hundred  wives'  princesses  and  three  hun 
dred  concubines.  .  .  .  Who  were  you,  I  say,  that 
the  woman  in  a  thousand  should  reveal  herself 
to  you?  That  is  the  punishment  of  men  and 
kings  who  love  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
strange  women,  that  the  thousandth  woman  is 
not  found  of  them.  ...  At  least,  it  is  so  dreamt 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

of  in  my  philosophy.  .  .  .  And  here  am  I,  with 
the  ape  chittcring  in  my  car,  and  the  peacock 
ruffling  in  my  breast,  all  because  a  man  I  truly 
love  is  in  love  with  a  woman  whom  I  do  not  love, 
and  is  like  to  win  her.  .  .  .  But  he  wouldn't  have 
swum  in  that  storm  with  her  as  I  did!  .  .  . 
There  goes  the  Peacock.  .  .  .  Never  will  he  light 
those  cool  eyes  of  hers.  .  .  .  That's  my  brave 
Ape.  ...  Is  it  because  it  seems  a  sort  of  waste 
that  that  elemental  creature  should  keep  the 
embers  on  little  Gigino's  hearth  and  bear  his  tem 
perate  children?  That's  part  of  it.  .  .  .  Yes. 
.  .  .  But  the  Ape  has  more  to  say  than  that,  and 
the  Peacock,  too.  .  .  .  Gigino  is  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  but  one  craves  a  little  pepper  now  and 
then.  .  .  .  It's  a  man,  a  man,  a  man  should  woo 
that  woman.  She  should  be  haled  by  the  hair  of 
her  head  upon  his  saddle-bow,  and  away  with 
them  both  into  the  night,  as  the  great  Magyar 
rode  off  with  the  wood-cutter's  daughter  in  the 
dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time.  .  .  .  Yes 
.  .  .  she  hails  from  there  .  .  .  from  'the  dark 
backward  and  abysm  of  time.'  .  .  .  Thousands 
of  years  has  her  soul  slept  in  that  womb,  and 
now,  though  she's  born  into  the  flesh  again,  she 
will  not  truly  waken  except  under  the  kiss  of 
kisses.  .  .  .  Can  Gigino  .  .  .  little,  kindly,  mod 
erate,  reasonable,  admirable  Gigino  give  her  that 
kiss  ?  I  doubt  it.  Could  I  ?  ...  If  I  loved  her 
.  .  .  even  with  the  half  of  love  ?  Could  I  ?  .  .  . 

1 60 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Could  I?  ...  And  there  are  Ape  and  Peacock 
singing  together  like  some  burnt-out  morning 
stars  in  a  dawn  of  the  Inferno.  .  .  .  Like  all 
the  wicked  who  are  impotent  themselves,  they 
crave  the  sweet  sight  of  apeness  and  peacockness 
in  others.  .  .  .  What  a  beast  I  am  even  to  think 
such  thoughts!"  he  broke  off  in  sound,  every 
day  English.  "As  for  the  reality,  I  wouldn't 
harm  a  hair  of  her  or  Gigino's  heads,  and  that 
much,  thank  God!  is  known  even  to  the  Ape 
and  the  Peacock." 

He  shook  himself  vigorously,  and  went  down 
stairs  to  ask  Pedring,  who  was  a  sailorman  by 
profession,  and  only  stopping  with  his  mother 
until  his  Scior  came  to  Pallanza,  about  the  little 
sail-boat  that  he  was  trying  to  hire. 

Another  month  went  by,  during  which  Kent 
saw  very  little  either  of  Varoni  or  the  Rupins. 
The  creative  fever  was  at  its  hottest  now,  and  he 
could  not  think  or  speak  except  in  the  personae 
of  his  characters.  Scenes,  phrases  came  to  him 
in  swimming,  while  eating,  as  he  fell  asleep,  as  he 
woke.  They  were  like  a  swarm  of  locusts  feeding 
on  the  field  of  his  identity.  He  was  only  the 
vehicle  of  his  creations — had  no  longer  any  part 
in  himself. 

Then,  as  usual,  in  the  midst  of  this  soaring 
mood,  came  the  reaction  and  the  need  of  his 
fellows. 

Varoni  was  in  Milan  for  a  few  days,  but  he 
ii  161 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

knew  that  Dione  would  enjoy  coming  with  him 
for  a  sail  in  the  Libellula — the  little  English  cut 
ter  that  Varoni  had  succeeded  in  finding  for  him 
on  Como. 

She  had  only  come  to  her  buoy  before  the 
Osteria  del  Pesce  d'Oro  two  days  ago,  and  this 
morning  there  was  a  light  and  steady  tramon- 
tana,  that  promised  hours  of  good  sailing. 

So  he  went  betimes  to  the  House  of  the 
Weasel,  and  formally  invited  the  Signora  and 
Signorina  Rupin  to  accompany  him.  The  Sig 
nora,  he  well  knew,  would  have  to  be  carried  by 
force  upon  any  sail-boat  whatever,  but  the  Sig 
norina,  as  he  had  foreseen,  was  frankly  delighted 
with  the  idea. 

As  they  rowed  out  to  her  in  Ping's  sloppy  little 
dingey — her  own  was  still  at  Taroni's  being 
painted — Dione  gazed  at  the  pretty  craft  as  some 
women  gaze  at  jewels. 

"Do  you  like  her?"  asked  Kent.  "A  neat 
little  minx,  isn't  she?" 

"She  is  beautiful,"  said  Dione.  "She  looks 
like  a  lovely  musical  instrument." 

"She's  a  bit  narrow  in  the  beam,  and  carries 
more  canvas  than  she  ought  to.  That  makes  her 
heel  over  a  good  deal  in  a  stiff  breeze  like  this. 
...  It  won't  make  you  nervous?" 

"I  am  never  nervous,"  said  Dione.  "Besides, 
you  forget  that  I  can  swim." 

"Rather  not!"  said  Kent,  smiling.  "I  never 
162 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

saw  a  woman  who  could  outswim  you,  and  there 
are  good  swimmers  in  England." 

"Did  you  not?"  said  Dione,  and  she  looked 
pleased. 

She  knew  enough  about  sailing  to  take  the 
tiller  on  necessary  occasions,  to  bring  her  about 
when  ordered,  and  to  keep  her  on  a  straight 
course,  so  that  they  two  went  alone. 

"Pedring  would  have  come,  but  I  thought  it 
would  be  jollier  with  just  ourselves,"  said  Kent, 
as  he  came  back  to  the  cockpit  after  hoisting 
the  jib,  and  the  Libellula  dipped  and  courtesied, 
heeling  over  in  the  steady  breeze  as  she  left  the 
buoy. 

"Will  you  keep  her  a  little  longer,  or  shall  I 
take  the  tiller?" 

"I  like  to  feel  her,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said 
Dione.  "She  seems  breathing  .  .  .  she  seems 
alive.  .  .  .  The  wind  is  like  a  soul  in  the  sails." 

Kent  looked  at  her,  charmed.  She  really  was 
an  inspiriting  companion. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "just  keep  her  nose  on  that 
big  gray  scar  in  the  Sasso — that  will  be  our  tack 
for  a  good  bit." 

He  had  intended  reading  to  her  the  sketch  that 
he  had  made  of  her  story  of  Diana,  but  now  the 
charm  of  her  alertness  as  she  held  the  tiller  and 
watched  the  sail  kept  him  from  suggesting  it. 

The  breeze  stiffened ;  the  motion  was  a  quick 
ening  joy.  Wave  after  wave,  shattered  by  the 

163 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

bow,  stung  back  in  spray  that  reached  him  some 
times  as  he  sat  above  the  cockpit  to  windward. 
And  he  watched  the  breeze,  spreading  from  the 
horizon  in  iron-blue  streaked  with  white,  until, 
with  hurrying  shivers,  it  was  upon  them,  and  the 
rail  down  and  the  foam  sluicing  along  the  coam 
ing  and  spurting  over  it. 

"You'd  better  bring  her  up  a  bit,"  he  warned. 

As  he  spoke  the  whiteca.ps  gleamed  from  a 
darker  patch  of  blue,  and  the  Libellula  careened 
at  an  alarming  angle  with  a  sudden  tumble  of 
solid  water  inside  her. 

Dione  jerked  the  boat  a  little  too  much  into 
the  wind,  and  the  sails  shook  nervously,  as  an 
impatient  horse  shakes  his  bits.  She  did  not  ex 
cuse  herself,  however,  which  was  characteristic— 
though  she  had  kept  the  bowsprit  on  the  scar,  as 
Kent  had  bade  her — but  sat  silent,  her  eyes  in 
tent  upon  the  now  steady  sail  and  the  lake  to 
windward.  Kent  watched  her  for  some  mo 
ments,  then  he  said: 

"But  surely  you  must  have  steered  a  sail-boat 
many  a  time  before?" 

"Yes,  long  ago.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  say  that? 
Is  it  because  you  think  that  I  am  steering  better 
now?" 

"You  are  steering  wonderfully  well.  I  didn't 
think  we  should  have  such  a  smart  breeze  or  I'd 
have  taken  in  a  reef." 

"Will  you  do  it  now?" 
164 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

:'No,  not  now  that  I  see  how  you  can  steer. 
Really  you're  wonderful." 

Dione  gave  him  a  half  smile. 

"Since  you  think  so  much  of  me  as  that,"  she 
then  said,  "I'll  tell  you  that  you  had  better  reef 
her  or  come  about.  We  are  getting  rather  close 
to  Pan's  Mountain,  and  Pan  doesn't  permit 
familiarities  ..." 

Kent  glanced  at  the  lowering  pile  right  ahead. 

"It  does  look  pretty  grim,  doesn't  it?"  he  ad 
mitted.  "By  Jove!  See  that  puff!  ...  It's  all 
white!  .  .  ." 

This  time  she  did  not  glance  at  him,  but,  all 
tense,  met  the  breath  of  the  mountain  with  half 
the  mainsail  shaking. 

' '  Brava  /"he  could  not  help  exclaiming.  ' '  And 
now  we'll  come  about." 

If  he  admired  her  in  an  expected  phase,  she 
admired  him  no  less  frankly  as  he  braced  himself 
and  tugged  at  the  jib  with  bare  forearms,  his 
spray  -  drenched  shirt  moulded  to  his  straining 
back,  powerful  at  the  shoulders  and  tapering  lean 
at  the  waist.  His  friend  Varoni  could  not  have 
pulled  home  a  sheet  like  that,  although  he  might 
be  an  excellent  swordsman. 

' '  What  kind  of  a  boat  did  you  learn  to  sail  in  ?" 
asked  Kent,  as  he  came  and  took  up  his  old 
position  near  her. 

"It  was  a  very  droll  sort  of  boat,  indeed,"  said 
Dione.  "It  was  a  flat-bottomed  sort  of  canoe— 

165 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

they  call  them  'sandolini'  here  —  three  planks 
put  together,  pointed  at  both  ends,  and  decked. 
My  father  gave  it  to  me.  He  did  not  wish  me  to 
have  a  sail-boat.  But  that  was  what  I  most 
wanted.  So  I  thought  very  hard,  and  then  I  did 
this.  I  had  a  lee-board  tacked  onto  her  all  the 
way  along  underneath.  Then  I  had  a  huge,  very 
strong,  quadrangular  umbrella  made.  You  see, 
it  wasn't  really  a  sail  ...  it  was  only  an  oddly 
shaped  umbrella,  which  I  could  hold  at  any  angle, 
even  going  to  windward.  When  a  puff  came  too 
strong  I  just  let  it  go  overboard,  and  then  pad 
dled  up  to  it  and  picked  it  up." 

They  laughed  together,  as  they  had  done  at 
their  first  meeting. 

"The  best  sail  for  a  canoe  I  ever  heard  of!" 
said  he.  "You  must  have  been  an  adorable 
child." 

"No  ...  I  don't  think  so.  I  was  too  silent. 
Only  Cecca  and  my  father  liked  me." 

"Only  they  understood  you,  perhaps?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dione. 

Little  by  little  the  breeze  fell,  the  water  lay 
dreaming.  They  came  about  and  made  for  home, 
running  down  the  faint  wind  with  spinnaker  set. 

"What  a  gorgeous  morning  it  has  been!"  said 
Kent.  "We  owe  it  all  to  Varoni,  you  know. 
He's  the  best  chap  alive." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  pleasant  little  man,"  said  Dione. 

"'A  pleasant  little  man!'"  exclaimed  Kent, 
166 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

warmly.     ' '  He's  much  more  than  that,  allow  me 
to  tell  you,  Signorina.     You  don't  know  him." 

"No,"  said  Dione.  "I  do  not  know  him  at  all. 
But  why  are  you  so  agitated  ?  I  do  not  doubt 
your  affection  for  him?" 

"Yes,  but,"  said  Kent,  "when  one  has  a 
friend  like  Gigino  one  wants  him  to  be  appreci 
ated." 

"  If  I  knew  him  better  I  am  sure  that  I  should 
appreciate  him.  But  to  know  just  a  little  he  is 
not  very  interesting." 

"He  is  much  better  than  interesting.  He  is 
solid  gold." 

"Yes,  he  is  very  solid,"  said  Dione. 

Kent  flashed  a  quick  glance  at  her,  but  she 
was  quite  grave. 

"What  I  mean,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "is  that 
he  is  one  of  those  men  in  a  million,  who  is  not 
only  the  best  friend  in  the  world,  but  to  whom  a 
woman  could  trust  herself  entirely.  He  is  con 
stancy  itself.  A  woman  marrying  him  could  feel 
safe  for  life." 

"I  do  not  think  that  to  feel  safe  is  so  very 
amusing,"  said  Dione. 

"But  a  woman  doesn't  marry  to  be  amused. 
She  marries  to  ...  to  ..." 

"To  what?"  said  Dione. 

"Well,  to  establish  herself  in  life,"  ended  Kent, 
rather  baldly. 

"I  suppose  that  is  why  so  many  marriages  are 
167 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

unhappy,  and  so  many  men  take  mistresses," 
said  Dione. 

Kent  was  astounded.  Not  in  this  fashion  did 
young  Italian  girls  usually  talk. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  shocked  you," 
said  his  guest.  "But  I  do  not  see  why.  You 
know  already  that  I  think.  And  when  one 
thinks  one  cannot  think  of  some  things  and  not 
of  others." 

"That  is  certainly  true,"  admitted  Kent. 
"And  I  am  not  shocked.  I  was  startled  a  little, 
perhaps." 

"If  you  allow  me  to  startle  you  so  easily  you 
will  not  be  comfortable  when  we  speak  together, 
and  that  would  be  a  pity." 

"I  think  I  was  exceedingly  silly  to  be  startled," 
said  Kent,  "and  I  beg  your 'pardon." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Dione. 


CHAPTER  XX 

NOW,"   said    Kent,  a  few  moments   later, 
when,  under  his  direction,  she  had  brought 
the  Libellula  about  and  they  were  heading  tow 
ard  Oggebbio,  "may  I  read  you  your  own  poem  ?" 

"You  may  read  it,  certainly,  if  you  will  be  so 
kind.  But  do  not  call  it  a  poem.  Poetry  is  too 
great  a  thing  to  speak  of  so  lightly.  Besides,  it 
makes  me  uncomfortable." 

"Very  well;  I  won't  say  anything  more,"  said 
Kent,  who  knew  that  she  was  speaking  truth 
fully.  "But  just  listen,  and  see  for  yourself  if 
I  am  not  right." 

His  Italian  was  not  bad,  but  although  full  of 
foreignisms  had  a  savor  of  its  own. 

"There,"  he  said,  when  he  had  finished,  "are 
you  not  a  little  surprised  ?" 

"It  is  not  ugly,"  said  Dione,  "but  it  is  not 
poetry.  I  suppose  my  Servian  blood  makes  it 
natural  for  me  to  put  things  into  sorts  of  songs 
or  stories.  .  .  .  There  is  so  much  of  that  among 
our  people.  They  gather  together  in  winter,  over 
the  fires  built  in  a  hole  in  the  floor  mostly,  and 
sing  songs  and  tales  to  musical  instruments, 

169 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

something  like  the  balalaika  of  the  Russians. 
My  father  taught  me  some  of  them.  He  said  I 
was  too  small  to  understand  them,  but  he  wanted 
me  to  know  some  of  the  folk-songs  of  my  country. 
Now  I  understand  them,  and  I  find  them  very 
wild  and  sad." 

"Could  you  repeat  some  to  me?"  asked  Kent, 
eagerly.  "I  should  love  to  hear  them." 

"Surely,"  said  Dione.  "But  take  the  tiller 
please,  for  I  do  not  know  how  to  steer  well  enough 
to  do  so  and  repeat  verses  at  the  same  time." 

She  laid  her  hands  one  within  the  other,  palms 
upward,  along  her  knee.  She  thought  awhile; 
then  she  said : 

"The  girls  in  Servia  are  very  tall  and  strong — 
as  I  am.  They  are  kindly,  but  underneath  they 
are  wild  and  revengeful  very  often  ...  so  my 
father  told  me.  And  they  carve  very  beautifully, 
and  paint  well  with  simple,  bright  colours.  In  the 
winter  they  paint  many  eggs  against  Eastertide. 
I  tell  you  this  so  that  you  may  understand  the 
song  I  am  going  to  repeat  for  you.  Now  I  will 
say  it." 

Her  low,  chaunting  tones  blew  past  him  out 
along  the  bright  water: 

"  My  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  a  strange  woman, 
Blue  they  are  as  the  wings  of  a  blue  moth; 
My  mother  came  from  a  far  country. 
For  my  eyes  he  loved  me; 
Now  have  my  tears  washed  away  their  colour. 
170 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

He  loves  them  no  more. 

Though  I  was  born  in  the  village, 

In  the  village  I  am  a  stranger. 

I  will  go  back  to  the  jar  country  of  my  mother. 

"All  the  winter  I  staid  alone  painting  eggs  for  Easter. 
With  my  tears  stained  by  my  eyes 
I  made  them  a  beautiful  bhie  colour; 
With  the  blood  that  had  left  my  heart, 
Scarlet  I  made  them. 

With  the  gold  of  the  ring  never  to  be  worn, 
I  gilded  them  in  little  patterns. 

"  My  heart  is  empty  as  the  shells  I  have  painted 
In  the  long,  long  winter; 
Out  of  them  will  come  no  little  life. 
For  me  there  will  be  no  Easter 
When  I  return  to  the  far  country  of  my  mother." 

Kent  thought  that  he  had  never  heard  any 
thing  more  plaintive  than  this  simple  folk-song, 
chaunted  in  that  low,  quiet  voice. 

' '  Thank  you , "  he  said .  "  It  has  the  strangest , 
wistful  charm.  May  I  hear  another?" 

"I  will  say  you  a  different  kind  of  one,"  said 
Dione.  "This  is  a  love-song: 

"My  hands  arc  fast  in  the  mane  of  his  young  stallion, 
The  earth  -flics  backward  like  a  spindle  unwinding. 
The  wind  drinks  my  breath, 
But  the  breath  of  my  lover  is  on  my  neck. 
His  hand  is  on  the  lock  of  my  heart. 
Close  he  holds  me  and  safe, 

As  the  earth  flies  backward  like  a  spindle  unwinding. 
171 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Now  if  Death  should  drink  my  breath,  like  the  wind, 
Glad  would  I  be. 

For  then  would  I  never  feel  the  hand  of  my  lover 
Fall  from  the  lock  of  my  heart. 

"  My  hands  are  fast  in  the  mane  of  his  young  stallion, 
The  earth  flics  backward  like  a  spindle  unwinding.". 

"That  is  really  fine,"  said  Kent.  "One  feels 
the  keen  thrill  and  smart  of  it.  The  night,  the 
galloping  horse,  the  man  and  maid  clutched  fast 
on  its  throbbing  back." 

He  looked  at  the  firm,  strong  hands  upon  her 
knee,  and  his  own  simile  of  the  Magyar  came 
back  to  him.  He  could  well  fancy  her  with  those 
hands  wound  fast  in  the  mane  of  a  young  stall 
ion,  speeding  away  with  her  wild  lover  into  the 
night.  And  Gigino,  balanced,  moderate,  con 
ventional,  was  in  love  with  this  girl!  Verily  love 
was  the  master  prankster! 

"There  is  another,  different  still,"  said  Dione. 
"It  is  very  wild  and  cruel.  It  is  called  'The 
Fierce  Maiden.'  Shall  I  say  it  to  you?" 

"Please,"  said  Kent. 

Chaunted  Dione: 


"  There  is  that  in  my  heart  that  will  not  let  me  sleep; 
There  is  that  beneath  my  heart  that  cries  without  a  voice. 
I  was  not  alone  in  the  summer; 
In  the  winter  I  was  all  alone. 
The  ashes  on  my  hearth  are  red,  but  not  with  fire. 
172 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Many  times  he  kissed  me  upon  the  eyes, 
And  many,  many  times  upon  the  mouth. 
And  he  said  to  me:    '  Thou  art  mine.' 
And  to  him  I  said:    '/am  thine.' 
The  ashes  on  my  hearth  are  red,  but  not  with  fire. 

"  Then  when  I  had  waited  many  days 
He  came  to  me,  and  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 
He  came  only  to  say  that  he  must  go. 
'  Why  must  thou  go  ? '  I  asked  that  fair  evil. 
And  he  answered:    '  They  ivait  for  me  at  the  wedding.' 
Then  that  beneath  my  heart  cried  without  a  voice, 
And  I  spake  to  him  as  it  bade  me: 
'  Go  then,  but  not  until  I  have  given  thee  a  last  kiss.' 
And  as  he  lay  upon  the  wolf-skin  before  my  fire, 
I ,  with  my  dagger  dear, 
Made  a  new  mouth  to  kiss,  above  his  heart. 
Red,  red  its  lips:    I  kissed  them  many  times. 
The  ashes  on  my  hearth  are  red,  but  not  with  fire.". 

"That  has  the  master  ring  in  it,"  said  Kent. 
"One  feels  that  it  is  true." 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  My  countrywomen  often  kill 
for  certain  wrongs." 

"Why  do  you  say  'my  countrywomen?'  Do 
you  not  feel  yourself  an  Italian?" 

Dione  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  all  like  my  father  and  my  father's 
people,"  said  she. 

"Do  you  think  that  you  could  take  your  'dag 
ger  dear'  and  make  an  end  of  one  who  had 
wronged  you  ?" 

' '  There  are  many  persons  in  us  that  we  do  not 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

know  until  they  come  forth  and  say  'I  am  thou 
also.'  .  .  .  Ever  since  I  was  very  little  I  have 
been  making  acquaintance  with  new  Diones. 
How  could  I  say?  I  am  Servian.  I  am  slow 
to  anger,  but  my  anger  could  be  very  great,  I 
think.  Then  perhaps  .  .  .  but  none  knows  these 
things  until  they  happen." 

Thought  Kent: 

"I  said  that  she  was  like  a  young  Fate.  I  be 
lieve  that  under  certain  circumstances  she  might 
use  a  dagger  without  a  quiver.  .  .  .  My  poor 
Gigino!" 

But  somehow  this  thought,  instead  of  repelling 
him,  drew  the  girl  strangely  nearer.  Like  all 
bright,  dangerous  natures,  he  loved  bright,  dan 
gerous  things.  There  were  primeval  forces  throb 
bing  there  so  near  him,  under  the  smooth,  white 
linen  of  that  commonplace  little  blouse.  He  felt 
it  as  he  had  never  felt  it  before.  Somehow  these 
songs  of  her  native  land,  chaunted  by  her  to  him 
in  a  far  country,  had  made  her  more  real,  more 
imminent. 

' ' '  The  ashes  on  my  hearth  are  red,  but  not  with 
fire,'"  he  said,  aloud.  "That  is  a  haunting 
line/' 

"Yes.  It  keeps  repeating  itself  in  one's  mind 
after  one  has  said  it." 

"Have  you  ever  repeated  any  of  these  songs 
to  Gigino?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  quite  wide  upon  his  for  the 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

first  time.  They  were  a  beautiful  colour,  like  the 
lake  mountains  just  before  a  storm. 

"To  the  Signer  Varoni?"  said  she,  in  amaze 
ment.  ' '  But  how  can  you  ask  ?  Surely  you  must 
know  that  they  would  shock  him  terribly." 

"No,  really.  I  don't  think  so.  Gigino  is  not 
as  narrow-minded  as  all  that." 

"I  cannot  know  the  width  of  his  mind,  but  I 
know  that  those  songs  would  shock  him." 

"I  think  you  do  him  injustice,"  persisted  Kent. 

"I  do  not  do  him  injustice.  I  only  know  very 
well  by  this  time  what  would  shock  him  and  what 
would  not." 

"Well,  I  think  you  are  mistaken — but  never 
mind.  And  you  really  did  not  think  I  ruined 
your  lovely  Diana  story  with  my  foreigner's 
Italian?" 

"No,"  said  Dione.  "You  must  truly  be  a 
great  poet  in  your  own  language,  for  even  in 
Italian,  which  you  cannot  know  as  you  do  that, 
you  say  things  in  a  different  way  from  others. 
You  take  a  familiar  word  and  put  it  in  a  new 
place.  It  is  like  seeing  a  little  child  that  one 
has  seen  every  day,  put  in  a  holy  procession.  It 
becomes  different  and  takes  a  new  grace." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Kent.  "You  pay  me  a 
great  compliment." 

"It  is  not  a  compliment,"  returned  Dione. 
"It  is  just  the  truth." 

Kent  gazed  at  her  consideringly  as  she  looked 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

past  him  up  at  the  full  sail,  for  she  was  steering 
again  now.  Truly  there  was  a  mine  of  pure 
jewels  in  this  nature.  Could  Gigino  polish  and 
set  them  fitly  ? 

' '  He  might  as  well  set  the  Iron  Crown  of  Lom- 
bardy  on  his  brow!"  thought  Kent,  with  a  sudden 
spurt  of  spontaneity. 

The  tramontana  was  now  breathing  itself  gen 
tly  to  sleep.  It  was  near  lunch-time,  but  the 
mooring  was  in  sight. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Kent,  taking  out 
his  note-book  and  the  nibbled  silver  pencil,  "I 
will  write  down  those  songs.  The  wind  is  so 
light  now  that  I  can  steer  very  well  with  the 
tiller  between  my  knees  like  this  and  write  at 
the  same  time." 

He  sat  on  deck  just  abaft  the  cockpit  and 
scribbled  industriously  while  Dione  chaunted  a 
second  time  the  folk-songs  of  her  far  country. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

KENT'S  work  did  not  go  so  well  for  the  next 
week  or  two.  He  had  got,  as  it  were,  "out 
of  touch"  with  his  characters.  Instead  of  that 
glad  and  mystic  oneness  with  them,  as  of  a 
mother  with  the  child  she  carries  beneath  her 
heart,  there  came  the  sense  of  apartness,  of  a 
thing  being  made  instead  of  a  thing  growing. 
The  Lady  Lisa  evaded  him,  grew  as  diaphanous 
as  the  cloud  image  of  the  real  Helen. 

"The  matter  is,"  thought  he,  discontentedly, 
"that  I've  let  myself  get  interested  in  outside 
matters.  I  ought  to  go  into  retreat  with  the 
Trappist  monks  when  I  begin  a  thing  like  this. 
I  ought  to  hear  no  real  voices  and  see  only  a 
strip  of  sky  through  a  tilted  shutter.  How  is 
one  to  keep  a  vampirish  lady,  'older  than  the 
rocks  among  which  she  sits,'  clear  in  one's  mind 
when  one  is  incessantly  wondering  about  the 
destiny  of  another  creature  who  is  as  young  as 
Eve,  still  warm  with  Adam's  side,  and  less  like  a 
vampire  than  a  white  hawrk  is  ?  I'm  sort  of  sub 
consciously  bothering  over  that  young  woman 
nearly  all  the  time.  If  she  would  only  take  or 
12  177 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

leave  Gigino,  I  think  I  could  settle  down.  I 
wonder  what  move  he's  made  lately?  .  .  .  I'll 
just  knock  off  work,  and  look  him  up  this  after 
noon  and  find  out.  .  .  .  Eh!  but  if  a  man's 
diurnal  shaving  makes  up  for  the  pangs  of  child 
birth,  as  Byron  said,  what  of  the  parturition  of  a 
five -act  drama  with  the  Monna  Lisa  for  lead 
ing  lady?  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  have  a  talk  with  Gi 
gino.  ..." 

Varoni  was  only  too  glad  to  talk  with  his 
friend.  He  had  kept  away  from  him  because 
of  his  work,  and  assented  gladly  when  Kent 
proposed  that  they  should  have  a  tramp  to 
gether. 

"And  how,"  said  Kent,  almost  as  soon  as  they 
had  started,  "how  goes  the  venture  upon  'the 
dragon  marriage '  ?" 

"I  have  asked  the  permission  of  the  Signora 
Rupin  to  pay  my  addresses  to  her  daughter," 
answered  Varoni,  "and  she  has  consented." 

"'Consented!'  ...  I  should  rather  fancy  she 
had.  .  .  .  She  had  consented  long  before  you 
asked  her,  my  dear.  ...  It  isn't  she  who  has  to 
be  reckoned  with,  but  the  young  lady  herself." 

"That  I  know  as  well  as  you,  Alareec,  but  you 
yourself  advised  me  festina  lente.  .  .  .  That  is 
what  I  am  forcing  myself  to  do.  It  is  hard,  but 
I  have  come  to  agree  with  you  that  it  is  better. 
In  two  days  I  shall  have  to  go  to  England  again. 
When  I  return  .  .  .  yes,  then  I  shall  ask  her." 

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PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"How  long  do  you  expect  to  be  gone?"  said 
Kent. 

"About  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  All  will  be 
very  easily  arranged  if  she  consents.  .  .  .  Her 
mother  and  I  talked  very  frankly.  I  have  asked 
especially  that  she  should  say  nothing  to  her 
daughter  until  I  speak  myself.  The  Signorina 
has  also  a  small  dot,  which  is  very  well." 

Kent  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"You  Latins  are  the  oddest  mixture,"  said  he, 
finally.  "Fancy  asking  about  the  dot  of  Ata- 
lanta.  Besides,  as  beastly  rich  as  you  are,  Gi- 
gino,  what  earthly  difference  can  it  make  to  you 
whether  she  comes  to  you  in  cloth  of  gold  or  in 
one  shift,  like  Cophetua's  beggar-maid?  It  is 
really  the  rummies t  thing!" 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  Varoni,  pa 
tiently.  "It  is  an  excellent  thing  for  a  young 
girl  to  bring  with  her  even  a  small  sum  of  money 
when  she  marries.  It  gives  her  a  certain  inde 
pendence — a  certain  feeling  of  dignity.  I  won 
der  that  you  should  not  see  that." 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  .  .  ."  said  Kent,  "when  one  is 
such  a  geyser  of  love  as  you  are,  to  think  about 
such  a  thing  at  all  seems  odd." 

"We  Italians  are  practical  as  well  as  passion 
ate,"  said  Varoni.  "  It  is  a  good  mixture,  I  think." 

"Admirable,"  assented  Kent,  gravely. 

They  walked  on  for  a  little  while  in  silence; 
then  Kent  said: 

179 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

' '  So  you  will  make  the  great  venture  in  about 
ten  days,  then  ?  .  .  .  What  do  you  think,  Gigino 
mio,  that  she  will  say  to  you?" 

Varoni  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  no  more  than  you,"  said  he.  "She 
is  quite  simple  and  open,  and  yet  it  is  not  an  easy 
nature  to  read." 

"No,"  said  Kent,  "it  certainly  is  not.  ...  I 
doubt  if  she  finds  herself  easy  reading,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  thought. 

" Chi  lo  sa?"  said  Varoni. 

He  left  for  England  the  following  Wednesday, 
and  the  day  after,  the  play  progressing  no  better 
and  the  tramontana  being  perfect,  Kent  decided 
to  ask  Dione  to  sail  with  him  again. 

Cruising  one  day  as  the  wind  carried  him,  he 
had  sailed  past  Santa  Catterina  and  come  upon 
the  most  lovely,  wistful  spot  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  lake.  It  was  a  rocky  point  that  stood  out 
in  the  fair  waters,  the  little  medieval  village  of 
Arolo — or  "Roeu,"  as  it  is  called  in  the  dialect— 
to  its  left;  a  shallow,  reedy  bay  fringed  with 
Lombard  poplars,  curving  far  into  the  melting 
distance,  on  its  right.  An  osteria  stood  on  the 
point,  which  was  called  Rocca  Moro,  and  en 
folding  it  were  natural  lawns  and  forests  in  which 
Melisande  might  have  walked  day-dreaming. 

"Yes,"  thought  Kent,  "I  will  ask  her  to  come 
to  Rocca  Moro  and  lunch  there  with  me.  It  will 
be  an  all-day  affair,  so  I  shall  propose  taking 

1 80 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

the   beautiful   old    Cecca   along   to   play   pro 
priety." 

Dione  was  as  frankly  glad  to  go  with  him  as 
usual,  her  Signora  Mamma  quite  as  glad  to  have 
her  go,  and  Cecca,  after  the  first  appalled  recoil 
of  an  old  Italian  peasant  woman  asked  to  go  for 
pleasure  on  a  sail-boat,  crossed  herself  elaborate 
ly  and  consented. 

The  morning  was  one  of  those  that  come  to  the 
lake  in  early  August,  dancing  like  Cinderella  on 
shoes  of  glass.  All  was  of  glass — a  thin,  Vene 
tian  glass  of  azure-gray  shot  with  silver — the  sky, 
the  mountains,  the  water.  On  every  side  the 
landscape  dreamed,  a  world  of  transparent  love 
liness,  blown  lightly  into  space  by  some  master 
workman,  film  on  delicate  film  of  a  stuff  lighter 
than  gossamer. 

"Eh,  Cecca  mia"  said  Dione  to  her  old  nurse, 
"are  you  not  glad  that  you  came  ?  Is  it  not  like 
sailing  upon  the  sea  of  glass  in  the  Scripture? 
Do  we  not  go  smoothly?" 

"Ay,  well  enough  at  present,"  admitted  Cecca, 
cautiously.  ' '  But  there  are  many  winds  in  the 
sack  of  the  sky.  This  is  not  the  only  one.  And 
many  of  them  are  rough-and-tumble  fellows,  not 
a  gentle  little  Sciora  of  a  breeze  like  this." 

"But  the  sky,  Cecca,  look  at  the  sky!  .  .  . 
There  are  no  clouds  there  at  all.  Only  a  sort  of 
silver  dust,  as  though  the  stars  had  been  ground 
into  powder  to  make  the  daylight." 

181 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Eh,  Gioia,"  said  Cecca,  "clouds  are  like  a 
woman's  humours.  One  never  knows  when  or 
whence  they  come,  or  why,  per  Dio!" 

Kent  laughed. 

"Cecca  is  right,"  said  he,  "especially  upon 
this  lake  of  hers  which  she  knows  well,  it  seems ; 
but  for  to-day  I  can  promise  her  fair  weather." 

Cecca  made  the  sign  against  evil. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  she  "I  have  that  here  in 
the  bosom  of  my  dress  will  protect  us  all." 

And  she  looked  knowingly  at  Dione.  Dione,  in 
her  turn,  cast  an  apprehensive  glance  at  Kent. 
She  was  dreadfully  afraid  for  a  second  that  Cecca 
was  about  to  mention  the  fact  of  having  that 
treasured  caul  in  her  bosom.  But  Cecca  nodded 
reassuringly.  "Have  no  fear,  Gioia,"  said  she. 
"I  know  better  than  most  when  to  speak  and 
when  to  be  silent." 

Kent,  busied  in  trimming  the  sails  so  as  to  pass 
as  close  to  Santa  Catterina  as  possible,  missed 
this  little  side  scene,  and  Dione  drew  a  long 
breath  of  relief. 

She  had  put  a  knot  of  orange  ribbon  under  her 
white  collar  to  celebrate  the  occasion  of  an  all-day 
gita  in  the  Libellula,  and  Kent  noticed  suddenly 
the  reflected  glow  that  it  sent  up  under  her 
smooth  chin. 

"She  is  quite  beautiful  to-day,"  thought  he. 
"Sometimes  she  is  almost  plain.  She  changes 
like  the  lake." 

182 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Will  you  steer  now?"  he  asked,  and  Cecca's 
two  hands  went  up  in  protest. 

"Signor!"  cried  she,  "do  not  do  such  a  thing 
as  that,  and  me  in  this  mad  little  vessel.  At 
least  let  me  feel  that  a  man  is  guiding  it." 

"There  is  no  danger,"  said  Dione.  "See  .  .  . 
you  could  do  it  yourself.  ..." 

"The  Madonna  forsake  me,"  said  Cecca  ear 
nestly,  "if  I  lay  so  much  as  the  tip  of  a  finger-nail 
on  that  piece  of  copper.  .  .  .  And  do  you  sit 
farther  away,  Gioia  mia.  The  first  thing  you 
know  we  shall  all  be  drinking  each  other's  healths 
in  water  if  you  meddle  with  it.  And  that,  you 
know,  is  not  good  luck,"  she  wound  up  with  a 
smile. 

"Very  well.  I  will  steer  all  the  way  myself," 
said  Kent,  "but  on  one  condition  .  .  .  that  you 
tell  us  some  ghost  or  witch  stories." 

"May  all  the  saints  protect  us!"  cried  Cecca, 
"making  horns"  with  both  hands.  "Do  not 
even  mention  such  things  at  a  time  like  this.  .  .  . 
I  entreat  you  seriously.  Besides,  I  do  not  like 
to  talk  that  others  may  laugh  at  me." 

"You  are  mistaken  truly  if  you  think  that  I 
would  laugh  at  you,"  said  Kent.  "My  dear  old 
nurse — she  is  dead  now,  the  Virgin  be  good  to 
her — was  from  an  island  called  Ireland,  where 
folk  know  much  about  such  things.  And  she 
was  also  what  is  called  a  'blood-healer.'  Do  you 
know  what  that  is?  ...  Very  well,  I  will  tell 

183 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

you.  It  is  a  person  who  can  lay  her  fingers  to 
the  lips  of  the  most  severe  wound  and  cause  the 
blood  to  cease  flowing  by  repeating  some  magic 
words.  And  this  is  a  true  thing,  for  this  old 
nurse — Moira  she  was  called — saved  my  life  when 
I  was  a  little  lad  by  stopping  the  blood  from  a 
scythe  -  cut  in  my  foot.  There  is  the  scar 
now  .  .  ." 

And  he  turned  sidewise  his  bare  foot  in  its 
cord-sandal,  that  she  might  see  the  scar  on  his 
ankle. 

"Santa  Maria!"  breathed  Cecca.  She  looked 
at  Kent  with  a  new  interest,  and  said  within 
herself,  "May  the  Virgin  prosper  him,"  more 
heartily  than  ever. 

Dione  also  gave  him  a  new  look.  This  was 
something  that  she  had  long  wanted  to  know. 
He  believed,  then,  in  the  incredible  and  unseen, 
even  as  she  did.  She  was  glad. 

"Eh,  la  Peppa!"  said  Cecca,  as  she  lifted  her 
self  from  an  earnest  scrutiny  of  the  ugly  white 
cicatrix.  "Then  I  will  tell  you  something,  since 
you  do  not  scoff  ...  I  kept  the  Signore  waiting 
a  bit  for  me  this  morning,  eh,  Signore?  .  .  . 
Very  well.  ...  It  was  because  I  had  so  sharp  a 
pain  in  my  thigh  that  unless  I  had  cured  it  I 
could  not  have  come  along  to-day.  'And  how 
did  you  cure  it,  Cecca?'  say  you.  .  .  .  Very  well. 
.  .  .  Listen.  .  .  .  Last  Sunday  I  went  to  church 
in  a  new  gown  and  the  headkerchief  my  young 

184 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Sciora  here  gave  me  lately  .  .  .  and  there  was 
a  certain  person  there  ..."  (she  "made  horns") 
"...  who,  as  I  passed  her,  just  touched  me 
here  .  .  .  with  the  tip  of  her  finger.  Very  well. 
I  know  what  that  means.  .  .  .  And,  sure  enough, 
no  sooner  am  I  at  home  again  than  a  bolic  pain 
seizes  me  so  that  I  can  scarcely  walk.  ...  I 
know  that  physic  is  no  use  ...  so  I  read  and 
read  in  my  books  of  good  magic.  .  .  .  Not  till 
this  morning  did  I  come  upon  the  right  thing. 
.  .  .  Very  well.  .  .  .  When  I  kept  the  Signore 
waiting  this  is  what  I  was  about.  I  get  me  three 
pinches  of  salt,  and  I  say  over  them  certain 
words,  .  .  .  and  then  I  touch  that  finger  -  mark 
with  the  three  pinches  of  salt,  one  after  the 
other,  and  then,  quick!  into  the  fire  with  'em, 
saying,  'Va  all '  Inferno!— Zzt!  Paf!  Crrkl  .  .  . 
The  Signore  should  have  heard  them  popping 
.  .  .  like  devilkins  diving  back  into  hell  .  .  .  but 
the  pain  went  with  them,  eh,  per  Dio!  There 
.  .  .  that  is  a  true  tale  for  a  true  tale,  so  none  is 
the  loser.  ..." 

They  were  now  coming  alongside  of  Rocca 
Moro,  and  Kent  went  forward  to  lower  the  jib. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"N  TOW,"  said  Kent,  as  they  mounted  the  old 

1  N  stone  steps  to  the  osteria,  with  Cecca  fol 
lowing  at  a  respectful  distance,  "let  us  order 
Cecca  a  gorgeous  repast  of  all  that  she  loves 
best,  and  then  go  and  picnic  on  one  of  those 
lovely  wild  lawns  that  I  am  dying  to  show  you 
.  .  .  see  .  .  .  that  shady  slant  of  turf  and  wild 
flowers  there,  just  beyond  the  hedge.  From  this 
terrace  Cecca  can  keep  an  eye  on  us,  and  gossip 
also  with  the  padrona  to  her  heart's  content." 

"Yes  .  .  .  that  is  just  what  I  should  like," 
said  Dione. 

He  rushed  about  like  a  boy,  tipping  right  and 
left  with  his  usual  English  improvidence,  and 
soon  they  were  seated  among  the  fragrant  grass 
es,  a  coarse,  clean  cloth  between  them,  and  upon 
it  a  bottle  of  white  wine,  a  fragrant  risotto  with 
saffron,  and  a  bowl  of  salad.  Kent  had  brought 
some  apples  from  Ceredo. 

He  watched  her,  smiling,  for  a  moment,  as  she 
ate  seriously,  taking,  now  and  then,  little  swal 
lows  of  wine  that  ran  with  a  ripple  down  her 
white  throat. 

186 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

''With  permission,"  said  he,  "I  do  love  to  see 
you  eat." 

"To  see  me  eat?"  said  Dione,  and  paused  with 
a  leaf  of  lettuce  just  touching  her  bright  lips. 

"Yes,  Signorina,  to  see  you  eat.  .  .  .  There 
are  not  many  people  in  this  monotonous  world 
who  eat  with  such  earnestness  and  yet  with  such 
charm  as  you  do." 

"I  did  not  think  that  any  one  could  eat  with 
charm,"  said  Dione.  "But  I  do  like  very  much 
to  eat  .  .  .  when  I  am  hungry." 

Kent  thought  of  the  Lady  Lisa,  and  smiled 
again.  Yes,  it  was  just  Dione  and  her  vibrant 
personality  that  had  shaken  the  clear  vision  of 
that  other  in  his  mind's  mirror.  .  .  .  The  Lady 
Lisa  might  have  eaten  rice  with  a  bodkin  like 
Amina,  but  she  would  never  have  put  whole 
spoonfuls  of  it  with  such  frank  zest  between  her 
subtle  lips.  .  .  . 

"And  now  that  this  excellent  risotto  has  nearly 
gone,"  pursued  he,  "and  you  feel  somewhat  re 
freshed,  I  will  ask  you  to  turn  your  head  a  little 
and  look  at  that  lovely  bay  and  the  long  line  of 
poplars.  ...  Is  it  not  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  that  you  ever  saw?" 

Dione  looked  at  it  quietly  for  some  moments. 
Then  she  said: 

"It  is  truly  very  beautiful,  but  very  sad  also. 
It  is  like  a  woman  who  has  wept  herself  to 
sleep." 

187 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"You  are  a  poet,"  said  Kent,  gleefully. 
"You're  always  betraying  yourself." 

Dione  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  curve  of  bay 
again,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  was  thinking 
that  what  she  felt  must  be  happiness,  and  that 
she  had  never  been  happy  in  all  her  life  before. 

"A  penny,"  said  Kent. 

"A  penny?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  we  say  in  England  'a  penny  for 
your  thoughts." 

"My  thoughts  are  not  for  sale  yet,  .  .  .  though 
you  do  call  me  a  poet,"  said  she,  with  her  rare, 
transforming  smile.  "Some  day  .  .  .  when  I 
have  made  a  little  book  of  them,  perhaps  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .  perhaps  then,  I  shall  sell  you  the  little 
book  for  ...  it  will  be  a  great  price  that  I  shall 
ask  for  my  little  book." 

"I  would  give  any  price,"  said  Kent. 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  might  ask." 

"I  will  pay  without  knowing." 

"For  one  little  book?" 

"For  the  book  of  your  thoughts,"  said  Kent. 

"That  would  be  just  myself." 

"Well,  you  know  the  price  of  a  virtuous 
woman,"  said  he,  lightly;  "it  is  above  rubies." 

"I  think,  after  all,  that  I  would  not  sell  that 
book  at  any  price,"  said  Dione,  gravely. 

"But  you  would  let  me  read  a  little  in  it,  here 
and  there,  wouldn't  you?" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  done  that  already." 
1 88 


PAN:S  MOUNTAIN 

"Oh,  but  not  half  enough,"  said  Kent. 

"Listen,"  said  Dione.  "I  have  something 
serious  to  say.  I  want  very  much  that  you 
should  read  me  something  in  one  of  your  real 
books." 

"But  they  are  not  translated  into  Italian,  my 
dear  Signorina.  I  haven't  yet  reached  that 
point  of  greatness." 

"You  could  translate  for  me." 

"No  ....  hardly.  I  do  not  think  that  even 
my  great  works  would  bear  that  test.  I  will  tell 
you  what  the  last  one — the  one  that  I  am  writing 
now- — is  about,  though,  if  you  would  like  to  hear." 

And,  lying  at  full  length  in  the  grass  beside  her, 
he  told  her  his  play  of  Leonardo  and  the  Lady 
Lisa. 

"It  is  very  original,"  said  Dione,  when  he  had 
finished.  "I  do  not  think  that  any  one  else  ever 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  But  tell  me"  —she 
looked  at  her  own  long,  tapering  hand  and  the 
grass  shadows  that  laced  it — "tell  me  truly,  .  .  . 
is  that  the  kind  of  woman  that  you  most  admire  ?" 

"One  admires  so  many  women  in  so  many  dif 
ferent  ways,"  said  Kent,  amused.  "Now,  you, 
for  instance  .  .  .  with  permission  I  should  like 
to  write  a  poem  about  you  and  call  it  'Eve 
Unrepentant." 

Dione  considered  this. 

' '  If  you  please,  will  you  tell  me  why  you  wish 
it?"  she  asked  at  last. 

189 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  is  because  if  you  had  been  in  Eve's  place 
I  am  quite  sure  that  you  would  not  have  waited 
in  that  commonplace  way  for  the  serpent  to 
tempt  you.  You  see,  Eve  had  no  imagination 
whatever.  It  never  occurred  to  her,  until  sug 
gested  by  another,  that  it  would  be  an  interesting 
and  vital  experience  to  eat  of  the  fruit  of  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  And  when  she  did 
finally  do  so,  it  was  in  the  very  dull  manner  re 
lated  in  the  story.  Now  you" — he  lifted  him 
self  on  his  elbow,  and  looked  up  at  her  gravely — 
"yes,  you,  I  am  quite  sure,  would  have  been  re 
flecting  upon  the  forbidden  tree  from  the  moment 
that  it  was  forbidden.  And  very  soon  you  would 
have  said  to  yourself,  'It  is  true  that  I  do  not 
know  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  death  of  which 
the  Lord  spoke,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would 
be  better  to  have  knowledge  even  of  good  and 
evil,  whatever  they  may  be,  than  to  remain  ig- 
norantly  thus,  admiring  each  other  and  playing 
with  the  beasts,  without  knowing  why,  or,  in 
deed,  without  knowing  anything  at  all.'  In  a 
word,"  continued  Kent,  tickled  with  his  own 
fancy,  and  spinning  it  out  as  he  saw  that  she  was 
interested,  "in  a  word,  you  would  have  been  very 
much  bored  in  Eden,  and  you  would  have 
thought  'I  prefer  to  accept  the  anger  of  the 
Lord  together  with  the  knowledge  of  good  and 
evil  rather  than  to  remain  in  total  ignorance 
and  ennui.  Besides,'  you  would  have  reflected, 

190 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

'  I  am  quite  sure  that  there  must  be  a  Lord  above 
this  Lord  who  would  not  grudge  me  anything 
that  He  has  made.' 

"And  so  one  day  you  would  have  walked 
quietly  to  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  before  the  ser 
pent  had  entered  Eden,  and  you  would  have 
eaten  of  its  fruit  with  that  frank  gusto  which  I 
have  already  told  you  that  I  find  charming. 
You  would  not  have  offered  Adam  any,  I  think. 
You  would  merely  have  told  him  your  own 
opinion,  and  left  it  to  him  to  decide  for  himself. 
Then  you  would  never  have  thought  for  an  in 
stant  of  hiding  or  of  making  yourself  a  silly  frock 
of  leaves.  You  would  have  just  listened  with 
grave  respect  to  the  words  of  the  Lord  when  He 
came  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Then  when  He 
had  finished  you  would  have  said,  'It  is  per 
fectly  just,'  and  before  the  angel  could  have 
lifted  his  naming  sword  you  would  have  walked 
quietly  out  of  Eden  of  your  own  accord. 

"Now  I  have  told  you  exactly  why  I  should 
like  to  write  a  poem  about  you  and  call  it  '  Eve 
Unrepentant.' ' 

Dione  was  smiling.  Her  thick  lashes  were 
lowered,  and  she  played  with  a  blade  of  grass, 
looping  it  in  and  out  between  her  fingers. 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,"  she 
observed,  still  smiling.  "I  used  to  wonder  long 
ago,  why,  when  Eve  had  been  created  so  very 
silly,  the  Lord  objected  so  much  to  her  having  a 

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PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

little  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  It  would  be 
impossible,  it  seems  to  me,  that  even  God  could 
be  much  interested  in  a  being  who  had  no  knowl 
edge  of  good  and  evil.  I  should  think  that  He 
would  want  his  creatures  to  choose  to  serve  Him, 
not  just  to  be  good  as  a  fish  is  a  fish  or  an  egg  an 

egg-" 

"Shall  I  write  the  poem?"  asked  Kent,  with 
his  eyes  still  on  her. 

"It  would  make  a  very  amusing  poem,"  said 
Dione. 

"Then  I  will  write  it.  May  I  dedicate  it  'To 
Dione'?" 

"Surely  .  .  .  it  will  be  a  great  honour." 

Then  she  smiled  again. 

"What  you  have  been  saying  reminds  me  of  a 
strange  old  song  of  my  country  .  .  .  very,  very 
old  it  is,  my  father  told  me.  It  is  a  song  that 
was  sung  to  the  newly  married.  I  always  thought 
it  very  strange  and  true,  though  most  people,  I 
suppose,  would  consider  it  blasphemous.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

"Of  all  things,"  said  Kent. 

"Very  well,"  said  Dione,  and  she  began  in  that 
low,  measured  chaunting: 

"The  Lady  Eve  was  singing  to  her  first-born; 
Adam,  her  lord,  worked  in  the  ripe  maize-field. 
Happy  was  she ;  her  song  came  forth  with  smiling : 
'Sleep  little  Cain,  a  secret  I  will  tell  thee: 
God  came  in  likeness  of  a  snake  to  Eden  Garden.' 
192 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Awake,   O   loving  bride!      Come   forth   glad   bride 
groom! 

Thy  spade  leans  idle  and  the  maize  is  ready. 
Thy  pitcher,  girl,  stands  empty  at  the  fountain. 
Work  after  love,  and  loving  after  working. 
God  came  in  likeness  of  a  snake  to  Eden  Garden." 

Kent  looked  at  her  for  a  time  in  silence  when 
she  had  finished,  then  he  said: 

"Yes  .  .  .  you  are  certainly  of  the  race  that 
produced  that  poem." 

"I  should  certainly  prefer  love  and  work  out 
of  Eden  to  love  and  idleness  in  it,"  answered 
Dione.  "I  could  not  have  gone  about  hand  in 
hand  with  Adam  forever,  doing  nothing  but  just 
love  him.  I  should  have  grown  to  hate  him." 

"Yet  it  would  have  been  pleasant  to  return 
there  sometimes  .  .  .  'in  the  cool  of  the  day,": 
said  Kent,  smiling. 

"I  think  each  man  and  woman  must  make  a 
little  Eden  for  themselves,"  said  Dione,  answer 
ing  his  smile.  "I  think  that  would  be  much 
more  amusing." 

"They  do,  ...  but  they  always  get  driven 
out.  And  they  cannot  return,  either.  It  is  the 
old  story  repeating  itself." 

"The  sword  of  flame  could  not  keep  me  from 
returning,"  said  Dione. 

"Ah,  but  it  isn't  only  the  sword  of  flame.  The 
Edens  that  men  and  women  make,  vanish  utterly 
.  .  .  are  swallowed  up  as  by  a  sort  of  heaven- 
X3  193 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

quake.  .  .  .  There  would  be  no  garden  for  you 
to  return  to." 

"That  is  very  sad  if  it  is  true,"  said  Dione. 
"But  I  cannot  think  that  it  is  always  true." 

"Always  .  .  .  always,"  said  Kent,  with  the 
first  bitterness  that  she  had  ever  heard  in  his 
voice.  "Always,"  he  repeated  a  third  time. 

Neither  said  anything  more  for  some  moments ; 
then  Dione  ventured  on  one  of  her  amazing 
franknesses.  "It  seems  such  a  pity  that  people 
have  to  marry,"  said  she.  "It  is  that,  I  think, 
that  swallows  up  the  Edens." 

"You  do  not  believe  in  marriage?"  Kent 
asked,  curiously. 

"Si,  I  believe  in  it — for  the  children.  Only 
for  the  children.  As  the  world  is  now,  the 
children  must  bear  names,  and  it  is  necessary 
that  they  have  a  right  to  them.  Otherwise  it 
seems  to  me  that  every  woman  should  only  want 
a  man  to  remain  with  her  as  long  as  he  loved  her. 
When  that  ceased  then  the  marriage  would  be 
unmade.  At  least,  that  is  the  way  that  I  feel 
about  it." 

' '  And  you  would  let  a  man  go — you  would  set 
him  free  just  because  he  loved  you  no  longer?" 

"But  ...  as  the  air!"  said  Dione,  and  she 
made  an  outward  gesture  with  both  palms  up 
turned. 

"Ah,"  said  Kent,  "you  think  so.  You  could 
not  know  until  you  had  been  tested." 

194 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  believe  that  I  know  exactly,"  said  Dione. 

There  was  another  pause. 

"Well,"  said  Kent,  after  a  while,  "with  per 
mission,  you  are  certainly  a  very  remarkable 
young  girl  to  have  been  born  on  the  shores  of 
Lago  Maggiore  and  never  to  have  travelled  from 
them." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  returned, 
gravely;  "but  it  is  what  moves  in  our  minds, 
not  the  moving  about  of  our  bodies,  I  think, 
that  makes  us  remarkable  or  not  remarkable. 
I  have  travelled  many  leagues  in  my  mind." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Kent,  thinking  aloud  what 
he  had  so  often  thought  to  himself — "I  wonder 
what  your  destiny  will  be?" 

"I  wonder  very  much  myself — often,"  said 
Dione. 

"Should  I  be  impertinent  if  I  asked  whether 
you  have  ever  thought  yourself  in  love  with 
any  one?" 

"No,"  said  Dione,  frankly.  "No,  you  are  not 
impertinent — and,  no,  I  have  never  been  in  love 
with  any  one." 

Kent  glanced  at  her,  then  gave  himself  a  men 
tal  shake.  "You  should  get  Cecca  to  tell  your 
fortune,"  he  said,  lightly.  "I  am  sure  that  it 
would  be  quite  unique." 

Dione  shook  her  head. 

"Cecca  has  told  my  fortune  very  often,"  said 
she.  "The  cards  are  always  most  stupid,  A 

195 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

fair  man,  a  dark  man,  jealousy,  a  quarrel,  a  rich 
marriage,  many  children,  all  boys—  She 
broke  off,  and  her  lips  tilted  in  laughter.  "That 
is  the  only  part  that  is  not  stupid — all  those 
little  boys,"  she  said,  gayly.  "If  I  ever  have 
children  I  wish  them  all  to  be  sons." 

Kent  thought  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and  the  con 
trast  made  him  laugh  also.  He  was  growing  ac 
customed  to  Dione's  unparalleled  candour. 

"But  has  Cecca  only  told  your  fortune  with 
the  cards  ?"  he  then  asked.  ' '  Has  she  never  told 
it  by  the  lines  on  your  hand?" 

"No  .  .  .  never,"  said  Dione,  looking  curiously 
at  her  smooth,  carmine-flushed  palm.  "I  do  not 
think  that  she  knows  how.  That  must  be  very 
amusing." 

"I  used  to  know  a  good  bit  about  it,"  said 
Kent.  "I  think  that  I  remember  enough  to  tell 
your  fortune.  Shall  I  try?" 

"Please,"  said  Dione,  much  interested. 

"Then  give  me  your  hand.  .  .  .  No,  your 
right  one  first." 

He  held  out  his  own  hand,  and  after  the  merest 
breath  of  hesitation  the  girl  laid  hers  in  it.  But 
no  sooner  did  the  warm,  flexile  palm  touch  his 
than  there  went  a  shock  through  all  Kent's  veins 
—that  singing  thrill  of  the  sharp  blood  that  is  like 
the  swarming  of  sparks  in  a  sudden  draught. 
His  heart  caught  on  a  beat.  He  stayed  for  a 
moment  gazing  down  at  the  firm  young  hand 

196 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

that  rested  upon  his  without  seeing  it.  Then 
suddenly  his  eyes  cleared,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  a  little  tremour  ran  through  it  too,  so  slight 
that  it  was  not  more  than  the  quiver  of  heat 
above  a  summer  field. 

Had  she  also  felt  it — that  mysterious  pang  that 
for  the  instant  fuses  two  life-currents  into  one? 
And  why?  .  .  .  And  how?  .  .  .  Never  had  she 
appealed  to  him  from  the  side  of  sex.  Never  had 
she  aroused  in  him  other  than  a  keen  sense  of  in 
terest  and  curiosity.  The  Ape  and  the  Peacock 
had  never  so  much  as  stirred  in  their  sleep  at 
the  thought  of  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  once,  perhaps,  but 
even  then  it  was  from  no  such  emotion  as  this 
.  .  .  but  from  the  merest  flash  of  that  primitive 
sense  of  rivalry  which  lies  latent  in  all  males,  and 
is  apt  to  move  uneasily  in  the  presence  of  a  too- 
confident  lover. 

He  commanded  his  voice  with  an  effort,  and 
managed  to  string  together  some  of  the  common 
places  of  palmistry.  Then  he  quickly  released 
her  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dione,  "I  think  that  it 
must  be  time  to  return  now." 

She  spoke  also  in  a  low  voice,  and  busied  her 
self  in  gathering  together  her  gloves  and  little 
blue  cotton  sunshade. 

They  went  back  to  the  osteria  without  looking 
at  each  other  and  without  saying  anything  more. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

KENT  tried  in  vain  that  night  to  wrench  his 
thoughts  away  from  Dione.  The  new  as 
pect  in  which  he  had  seen  her  made  him  feel 
much  as  Orlando  would  have  felt  if,  when  think 
ing  upon  Rosalind  in  her  page's  dress,  as  a  pleas 
ant  boy,  he  had  come  suddenly  face  to  face  with 
her  in  all  the  allurement  of  woman's  fragrant  at 
tire. 

His  fancy  played  him  tricks,  would  not  be 
commanded.  He  ordered  it  sternly  to  weave  him 
the  pattern  of  the  next  act  of  his  "Leonardo," 
and  it  leaped  spirtishly  to  and  fro,  waving  wisps 
and  shreds  of  Dione 's  personality  and  appear 
ance  before  his  mental  vision.  Now  it  was  the 
strange,  gold-scarlet  of  her  lip  trembling  sudden 
ly  like  a  petal  under  the  bee.  Now  the  black 
flamelets  of  her  hair  as  they  kept  touching 
lightly  her  cheek  and  throat  during  the  morn 
ing's  sail.  .  .  .  Now  he  heard  her  full,  young 
voice  saying  "No  ...  I  have  never  been  in 
love.  ..."  Then,  rich  with  soft  laughter,  "I 
wish  all  my  children  to  be  sons.  ..."  He 
thought  of  her  freedom,  her  frankness,  her  clear 

198 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

daring  as  of  the  young  Eve,  whom  he  himself 
had  pictured,  and  who  partook  of  the  fruit  of 
the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  untempted  of 
the  serpent,  and  led  only  by  her  own  will.  .  .  . 
Angrily  he  coerced  his  mind :  lighted  a  candle, 
set  himself  to  read  something  bearing  upon  his 
drama.  That  prankish  fancy  of  his  wove  wild 
arabesques  between  him  and  the  sober  pages — 
a  tipsy  elf  working  in  her  absence  at  a  witch's 
loom,  with  all  the  feverish  colours  of  just  awak 
ening  desire. 

Kent  extinguished  his  candle  again,  and  went 
out  upon  the  balcony.  The  sky  was  freckled 
as  with  fire  by  the  swarming  stars,  the  lake  in 
a  deep  sleep.  Against  the  dark  bulk  of  the 
Sasso  di  Ferro,  Dione's  face  leaped  suddenly 
toward  his,  clear  and  pale  and  distinct  as  in  a 
flash  of  lightning.  He  saw  again  the  tremour  of 
the  red  lip,  as  of  a  petal  under  the  bee,  and  the 
quivering  of  the  fine  nostrils. 

"O  cursed  blood  of  man,  always  urging  him 
back  from  the  bright  places,"  groaned  he  in  his 
heart.  "It  is  a  flood  that  pours  over  a  gulf 
— down,  down- 
He  stared  up  at  the  flashing  sky  that  had  sent 
him  such  sovereign  messages  of  power  and  joy 
only  a  short  time  since.  His  creative  mood  was 
no  longer  upon  him  like  a  king's  mantle,  but 
hung  heavily — a  thing  all  tatters. 

Then  he   thought   suddenly   of  Varoni,  and 
199 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

went  hot  from  head  to  foot  with  an  honest 
shame. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  setting  his  jaw,  "I  will  not 
see  the  girl  any  more  until  Gigino  comes  back." 

But  he  slept  ill  that  night,  and  the  next  day 
the  play  went  no  better. 

This  state  of  mind  lasted  for  three  days.  On 
the  third  night,  about  twelve  o'clock,  unable  to 
endure  longer  the  straitness  of  his  bed  and 
room,  he  sprang  up,  flung  on  his  clothes,  and 
went  out  of  the  house,  far  afield. 

The  night  was  low  and  gray — the  scirocco 
blowing.  He  seemed  to  be  walking  through  the 
fragrant  steam  from  a  vast  cauldron  in  which  a 
love -potion  was  brewing.  All  the  night  was 
laden  with  heavy  scent  of  sunburnt  peaches, 
of  white  jasmine,  of  roses  overripe,  of  the 
swooning  breath  of  gardenias.  The  subtly 
mingled  perfumes  played  over  his  stretched 
senses  like  fingers  over  a  harp — shrilling  out  wild 
chords,  sounding  a  single  note  now  and  then 
with  a  pang  as  of  physical  pain,  now  merely 
thrumming  softly,  now  striking  with  the  open 
palm.  He  smarted  with  the  fierce  sense  of 
helplessness,  lowered  his  head,  walked  faster. 
Almost  he  ran,  plunging  into  the  dense  night  at 
random,  scaling  walls,  trampling  through  young 
maize — going  on  and  on  and  on,  in  the  urgency 
of  out-tiring  those  rebellious  senses. 

And  then  suddenly,  barely  halting  in  time, 

20Q 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

he  almost  struck  against  some  one  else  in  the 
uneasy  gloom.  The  next  moment  he  felt,  rather 
than  saw,  that  it  was  Dione.  She  caught  her 
breath,  and  he  heard  her. 

"You!"  they  both  said  together. 

They  stood  quite  still  for  a  space,  gazing  tow 
ard  each  other  through  the  shadow's.  At  last 
Kent  said : 

"At  least  you  have  Masciett  with  you?" 

And  Dione  answered: 

"Yes,  he  is  somewhere  near." 

Then  again  they  stood  silent. 

"Signorina,"  said  Kent  at  last,  "you  must  let 
me  take  you  back  to  your  home.  This  is  a  dan 
gerous  madness — to  go  about  on  these  moun 
tains  alone  at  midnight." 

"No,"  said  Dione,  "it  is  not  in  the  least  dan 
gerous.  Nothing  has  ever  happened  here.  I 
could  not  sleep,  and  the  garden  seemed  too  small 

to  walk  in.     That  is  all." 

"  But  your  mother  may  chance  to  call  you  .  .  . 

or  your  nurse  .  .  .  and  find  you  gone.  And 
then  they  will  be  terribly  alarmed." 

"No,"  said  Dione  again,  "Cecca  sleeps  too 
soundly,  and  my  mother  never  calls  me  in  the 

night." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Kent,  slowly,  "I  must 
take  you  back,  and  at  once  .  .  . 

"Very  well  ...  I  will  go  with  you,"  said 
Dione. 

201 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

They  turned,  but  the  way  was  not  clear  before 
them. 

"Do  you  know  a  direct  way  back?"  asked 
Kent,  after  some  moments. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  just  walked  on  and 
on  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  we  are?" 

"I  think  that  is  Arlino  .  .  .  there,  where  you 
see  that  little  glow.  I  think  they  are  having  a 
festa  to-night.  ...  If  we  come  down  by  Arlino 
we  shall  be  on  the  right  way  .  .  .  but  it  is  very 
steep." 

"I  can  help  you  if  it  gets  too  rough,"  said 
Kent,  after  another  pause.  "Let  us  go  straight 
across  this  field.  ...  It  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  a  rather  high  wall  there.  But  I  can  help 
you  over  it  quite  easily.  .  .  .  Ah,  here  is  Mas- 
ciett!" 

They  went  on  in  silence  until  they  reached  the 
wall.  It  was  built  of  stones,  and,  as  he  had  said, 
rather  high.  He  swung  himself  on  top. 

"Now,"  he  said,  bending  down  to  her,  "set 
your  foot  securely  on  one  of  those  jutting  stones 
and  give  me  both  hands." 

In  another  moment  she  was  beside  him. 

"Wait,"  he  then  said,  peering  down.  "There 
seems  to  be  a  ditch  here  .  .  .  don't  jump  ...  I 
will  get  down  first  and  then  lift  you  down." 

Dione  did  just  as  he  bade  her,  but,  in  descend 
ing,  her  skirt  caught  on  a  stone.  For  an  instant 

202 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

she  was  on  his  breast.     He  steadied  her  lightly, 
and  again  they  went  on  in  silence. 

They  were  next  halted  by  a  thick  wood. 

"I  know  this  wood,"  said  Dione,  as  he  hesi 
tated;  "there  is  a  rough  road  through  it  that 
leads  round  above  Arlino.  We  must  walk  along 
it  until  we  come  to  that  road." 

"Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  way,"  said  Kent. 

Dione  went  slowly,  peering  among  the  thick 
stems  of  the  trees.  At  last  she  said: 

"This  is  it  ...  I  have  found  it,"  and  they 
turned  into  the  dense  and  rustling  darkness. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Dione,  after  a  few  moments, 
"if  Pan  is  abroad  to-night?" 

' '  Why  ?     Do  you  feel  frightened  ?" 

"No,"  said  Dione,  "I  feel  happy." 

Kent  was  silent. 

"It  always  makes  me  happy  to  be  abroad  in 
the  night,"  she  added,  when  some  moments  had 
passed.  "But  I  fear  that  you  are  really  dis 
pleased  with  me,  Signore  ?" 

' '  I  have  no  right  to  be  displeased  .  .  .  but  I  am 
anxious  for  you.  This  was  a  mad  thing  to  do." 

"I  love  doing  the  things  that  others  call  mad," 
said  she. 

Kent  was  silent  again. 

Presently  the  girl  said: 

"It  usually  makes  me  angry  for  others  to  pre 
sume  to  be  angry  with  me;  but  somehow  I  am 
not  angry  with  you — I  am  only  sorry." 

203 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"For  God's  sake!"  said  Kent,  under  his  breath. 

"If  you  please  .  .  .  what  did  you  say  ?"  asked 
Dione. 

"I  said  that  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  be  ... 
to  feel  .  .  .  not  to  be  angry  with  me." 

"No,  it  is  not  good  of  me.  It  comes  natu 
rally.  Stop!  .  .  .  I  walked  against  a  tree  then. 
.  .  .  Here  is  another.  .  .  .  Can  you  see?  .  .  . 
Are  there  trees  in  your  way  ?  .  .  .  I  fear  that  we 
are  lost  ..." 

"You  are  crazy!"  exclaimed  Kent,  roughly. 
"It's  impossible  ..." 

He  struck  a  match,  and  the  near  leaves 
sprang  out  in  a  delicate  lacework  against  the 
night. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said  at  last,  and  guided  her 
toward  a  stony  path  that  went  curling  down  to 
Arlino. 

Suddenly  Dione  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Well?"  said  Kent,  almost  impatiently. 

"I  have  run  a  thorn  or  a  splinter  of  stone  into 
my  foot,"  said  she.  "One  of  my  zoccoli  turned, 
and  my  foot  went  down  upon  the  ground." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  "if  you  will  sit 
down  there  beside  the  path  I  will  light  another 
match  and  see  what  has  happened." 

He  struck  a  match,  and  this  time  it  was  a 
throng  of  young  birch  stems  that  leaped  like 
white  dryads  out  of  the  darkness. 

Dione  slipped  her  bare  foot  from  the  wooden 
204 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

patten,  and  Kent  bent  over  it  with  the  match. 
Then  he  handed  her  his  match-case. 

"It  is  only  a  thorn,"  said  he;  "if  you  will 
light  me,  I  will  take  it  out  for  you  in  a  moment." 

He  lifted  the  shining  foot  upon  his  hand,  and 
his  blood  shook  at  the  contact.  The  thorn  had 
a  rough  head,  and  was  easily  drawn  out. 

"Now  bind  your  handkerchief  around  it,"  said 
Kent.  "You  will  know  better  how  tight  to  make 
it  than  I  could." 

Dione  obeyed  him,  and  when  they  had  gone  on 
a  little  way,  she  said : 

"You  are  indeed  very  angry  with  me  ...  I 
could  see  it  in  your  face  by  the  light  of  the 
matches." 

Kent  set  his  teeth. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken,"  he  said,  formally. 
' '  It  would  be  an  impertinence  for  me  to  be  angry 
with  you.  As  I  said  before,  I  am  only  deeply 
anxious  for  you.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that 
some  one  whom  you  know  were  to  meet  you  near 
Arlino?" 

"I  should  not  care,"  said  the  girl,  proudly. 
"I  am  ashamed  of  nothing  that  I  do." 

Kent  groaned  in  spirit.  He  had  the  feeling  of 
being  in  a  genuine  nightmare,  which  only  dif 
fered  from  other  nightmares  in  its  intensity  and 
reality.  He  thought  that  little  Arlino  must  be 
trotting  down  the  mountain-side  before  them,  so 
interminable  seemed  the  way  to  it. 

205 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  stony  footpath  which  they  were  follow 
ing  looped  suddenly  upon  itself,  and  took 
so  sharp  a  fall  that  he  was  obliged  to  assist  Dione 
in  descending  it.  She  gave  him  her  hand  frankly, 
and,  balancing  each  other,  they  went  cautiously 
down  toward  the  festive  glow  above  Arlino. 

It  was  very  dark  in  these  woods,  though  the 
clouds  had  thinned  somewhat,  letting  through 
the  light  of  a  sick  moon. 

They  came  out  upon  a  little  slope  of  newly 
mown  grass  directly  overhanging  the  village. 
It  was  as  if  they  stood  on  some  high  place  in  an 
open  -  air  theatre  and  looked  down  upon  a  play. 
Laughter  and  gay  shoutings  and  the  nervous 
shiver  of  several  mandolins  floated  up  to  them. 

"If  one  of  my  zoccoli  came  off  it  would  fall 
right  among  the  dancers,"  said  Dione,  leaning 
over,  with  her  arm  about  a  tree.  "How  like 
impassioned  mosquitoes  those  mandolins  sound, 
do  they  not?  Those  must  be  strolling  players. 
Our  peasants  do  not  use  mandolins." 

"I  never  heard  of  an  impassioned  mosquito," 
replied  Kent,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

206 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"But  if  they  should  be  impassioned,  that  is 
the  way  that  they  would  sound,"  persisted 
she. 

"Very  likely,"  said  Kent;  "but  we  had  better 
be  getting  on.  Shall  we  have  to  pass  through 
the  village,  or  is  there  a  way  round?" 

"There  is  a  way  round.  Let  us  look  just  a 
few  moments  longer.  How  gay  they  are !  What 
a  little  makes  them  happy!  Ah,  I  should  like  to 
dance.  .  .  .  Now  .  .  .  out  here  ...  in  the  night 
...  on  this  grass  .  .  ." 

"To  the  music  of  'impassioned  mosquitoes' 
and  in  zoccoli,  and  after  having  a  thorn  in  your 
foot?"  asked  Kent,  allowing  himself  to  be 
amused,  in  the  relief  of  having  reached  the  right 
road,  and  deciding  to  leave  her  to  go  home 
alone  as  soon  as  they  had  circled  the  village. 

"The  thorn  does  not  hurt  now,  and  I  could 
dance  perfectly  well  in  bare  feet  on  this  grass." 

She  took  her  arm  from  about  the  tree  and 
turned  to  him.  He  wras  smiling. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "you  are  not  vexed  any  more. 
.  .  .  Let  us  dance,  then!  ...  In  all  my  life  I 
have  never  danced  with  a  tall  man  ..." 

All  Kent's  mastered  turbulencies  swept  back 
upon  him  in  a  rush.  To  hold  that  buoyant 
figure  in  his  arms  out  here  in  the  wide  night, 
alone,  he  and  she  ...  to  turn  and  turn  with 
her  against  his  breast,  to  that  crude  yet  stirring 
peasant  music  ...  to  feel  the  intimate  perfume 

207 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

of  her  hair  in  his  nostrils,  the  pliant  hand  palm  to 
palm  with  his  .  .  .  this  would  be  ... 

"No,"  he  said,  curtly,  "we  really  have  no  time. 
It  must  be  well  after  two  o'clock  ..." 

"Why  should  people  spoil  everything  with 
clocks  ?  .  .  .  What  has  time  to  do  with  this  free 
night?  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  dance  ..."  said  the 
girl,  wilfully. 

"I  assure  you  .  .  .  really  ..."  began  Kent. 
But  she  broke  in: 

"No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  We  must.  .  .  .  Just  one 
dance,  as  the  fauns  and  dryads  dance  on  little 
lawns  like  this.  ...  It  will  be  such  a  nice  thing 
to  remember.  I  dance  very  well  indeed,"  she 
added,  naively,  as  she  saw  him  waver.  "As  well 
as  I  swim  .  .  .  truly." 

"Viva  Dio!"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  short  laugh 
that  she  would  have  recognized  as  reckless  had 
she  known  more  of  men.  "Let  us  dance,  then.  .  .  ." 

He  took  a  step  forward,  put  his  arm  about  her ; 
she  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and  their  full  pulses  beat 
into  one.  At  that  contact  both  were  drowned 
in  a  wave  of  mutual  consciousness  that  swayed 
as  they  swayed,  dancing  with  them.  .  .  .  The 
strident  throbbing  of  the  mandolins  seemed  to 
pass  into  their  blood.  .  .  .  The  girl  moved  in  a 
trance,  the  man  in  a  fierce  glow  of  pleasure. 
When  he  stopped  suddenly  she  swayed  where 
she  stood,  and  he  held  her  upright,  his  arm  still 
about  her. 

208 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

They  gazed  into  each  other's  pale  faces,  ab 
sorbed,  forgetful  of  all  else  for  the  moment.  .  .  . 

At  last  Dione  said,  under  her  breath : 

"How  pale  you  are!  ...  Am  I  pale,  too?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  pale?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  very.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause.  Still  they  stood  there, 
unconsciously  clasping  tighter  and  tighter  their 
interlaced  fingers. 

"In  this  light,"  whispered  Dione,  presently, 
not  knowing  that  she  was  whispering,  "your  eyes 
are  black.  ...  In  the  day  they  are  blue." 

"Your  eyes  are  black  also.  .  .  .  And  deep 
.  .  .  deep." 

He  bent  nearer,  gazing  into  them.  Suddenly 
the  girl  released  her  hand  and  pressed  it  over 
them. 

"I  am  giddy  ...  I  do  not  know  what  it 
is  .  .  ."  she  faltered. 

In  an  instant  Kent  had  helped  her  to  a  sort  of 
chair  among  the  oak  roots. 

"  We  danced  too  long  .  .  .  that  is  all,"  he  said, 
in  a  stifled  voice.  "Rest  there  a  minute,  and 
then  we  must  go  on." 

Before  long  Dione  got  to  her  feet,  and  they 
continued  on  their  way  toward  Vareggw  in 
silence.  When  they  had  passed  round  Arlino, 
and  reached  the  footpath  through  the  fields  near 
her  home,  Kent  stopped. 
14  209 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"It  is  better  that  I  should  leave  you  to  go  the 
rest  of  the  way  alone,"  he  said,  speaking  very 
quietly,  "but  I  shall  stay  here  and  watch  until 
you  are  safe  within  the  gate." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dione,  in  a  scarcely  audible 
voice.  She  was  still  faint  and  giddy  with  the 
spinning  of  that  strange  new  fire  through  her 
veins. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Kent.  "Just  one  thing 
more,  though  ...  I  want  you  to  make  me  a 
promise.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  you 
will  never  again  do  such  a  mad  thing  as  you  have 
done  to-night." 

For  a  second  she  felt  that  same  recoil  at  the 
man-dominance  in  his  tone  which  she  had  felt  on 
first  meeting  him.  Then  a  sweet  rush  of  emotion 
totally  new  to  her  swept  it  away. 

"Would  it  pain  you  if  I  did  not  promise?"  she 
asked,  softly. 

"It  would,  indeed,"  he  answered,  with  un 
mistakable  earnestness. 

"Then  .  .  .  though  I  hate  promising.  .  .  my 
father  taught  me  never  to  make  promises  ...  I 
will  promise  you." 

"Thank  you  from  my  heart,"  said  Kent. 

He  did  not  seem  to  see  her  outstretched  hand, 
but  merely  bowed  as  she  said  "Good-night"  and 
left  him. 

Then,  when  she  had  passed  from  sight,  he  threw 
himself  down,  head  on  arms,  in  the  field-grasses, 

210 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

utterly  spent,  his  brain  a  whirl  of  remorse  .  .  . 
at  odds  with  himself,  with  her,  with  the  whole 
world.  He  lay  there  for  more  than  an  hour. 
When  he  rose  to  return  to  Ceredo  the  dawn  was 
whitening  along  the  sky. 

Kent  made  up  his  mind  in  short  order  that 
morning.  ' '  There  is  but  one  thing  for  me  to  do, " 
he  told  himself,  "and  that  is  to  get  away  until 
Gigino  comes  back.  I  will  go  to  Milan  on  the 
pretext  of  reading  in  the  Ambrosiana  for  my 
play,  and  stop  there  until  next  Wednesday.  For 
we  are  not  just  playing  with  fire,  that  wild  girl 
and  I — we  are  hurling  it  at  each  other,"  he  wound 
up,  with  a  flash  of  his  usual  whimsicality. 

So  he  went  by  the  twelve-o'clock  boat  that 
day,  and  established  himself  in  his  usual  quarters 
in  the  Varoni's  house,  now  empty  and  shrouded 
for  the  summer,  with  only  old  Guiseppe,  the 
butler  and  his  wife,  to  look  after  it. 

The  weather  was  suffocating,  and  he  bored 
himself  abominably;  but  the  sense  of  even  a 
somewhat  tardy  right -doing  braced  him  and 
made  things  bearable.  Never,  in  all  his  experi 
ence,  though,  had  a  week  seemed  of  such  dura 
tion.  He  missed  his  swims  in  the  lake,  his  long 
walks  among  the  mountains — more  than  these, 
he  missed  Dione  in  a  fashion  that  startled  him 
—missed  her  talk,  so  quaintly  frank  and  original, 
her  rare,  soft  laughter,  her  love  of  the  things 

211 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

that  he  loved  ...  in  a  word,  her  companion 
ship. 

He  still  slept  badly,  and  all  night  long  he  woke 
at  intervals,  roused  by  some  vivid  dream  of  her 
with  the  pang  as  of  an  actual  sword  in  his  flesh. 
Now  he  was  swimming  again  with  her  to  meet 
the  storm.  .  .  .  Now  she  laid  her  hand  in  his  for 
the  first  time,  as  on  the  lawn  at  Rocca  Moro.  .  .  . 
Now  he  held  her  in  his  arms  again,  after  that  wild 
dance  by  midnight  above  Arlino  .  .  .  and  she 
whispered  to  him,  "How  pale  you  are!  .  .  .  Am 
I  pale,  too  ?"  Again,  it  was  as  if  he  had  told  her 
the  whole  truth  at  last,  and  she  lay  sobbing  face 
down  upon  the  ground,  a  wild,  free,  primal  thing 
in  anguish,  not  to  be  comforted.  .  .  . 

From  this  last  dream  he  started  up  with  the 
sweat  on  his  forehead. 

' '  Lord  God !"  he  said.  ' '  It  can't  be  that  I  was 
beginning  to  love  her  really?" 

And  he  dressed  himself,  though  it  was  long  past 
midnight,  and  went  out  and  walked  until  day. 

"The  young  Signore  is  surely  returning  this 
week,  is  he  not,  Beppino  ?"  he  asked  the  old  butler 
on  the  fourth  morning  of  his  exile.  "There  is 
no  mistake  about  it,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  Signore  .  .  .  there  is  no  mistake.  But 
the  young  Signore  will  go  direct  to  the  Signora 
Varoni  at  Pallanza.  .  .  .  He  will  not  stop  in 
Milan  even  for  a  night.  ...  So  he  wrote  last, 
Signore." 

212 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Then  that  is  all  right,"  Kent  told  himself, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief.  ' '  And  I  shall  be  able  to  get 
out  of  this  furnace  of  dreariness  by  Wednesday 
afternoon." 

That  same  evening  he  sat  at  a  little  table  in  the 
Galleria.  In  spite  of  the  sultry  heat  a  constant 
stream  of  people  passed  back  and  forth.  He 
recognized  some  faces  that  he  used  to  see  years 
ago,  faces  that  one  never  saw  during  the  day, 
that  only  appeared  at  night  in  the  Galleria ;  and 
their  owners  argued  excitedly,  stopping  to  do  so, 
and  seeming  to  gather  force  from  their  motionless 
legs  to  put  into  the  gesticulations  of  their  arms 
and  hands. 

Now  and  then  a  group  would  drift  out  of  the 
stream,  and,  eddying  along  its  edge,  settle  round 
one  of  the  little  tables  before  a  cafe.  And  thus 
it  was  all  day  long,  he  remembered,  only  the 
crowd  varied  with  the  time  of  day.  The  morning 
was  the  time  of  the  Gigioni,  the  rank  and  file  of 
singers  who  gathered  here  from  North  and  South 
America,  from  St.  Petersburg,  London,  Vienna, 
to  brag  about  their  exploits  and  look  out  for  new 
scritture.  At  noon  they  vanished,  giving  way  to 
the  curb-market  that  spread  from  the  near-by 
stock  exchange.  Then  came  evening,  and  the 
crowd  of  habitues  out  for  a  constitutional  and 
the  chance  of  meeting  some  one  with  whom  to 
chat.  This  crowd  again  thinned  toward  mid 
night,  when  the  audience  of  the  surrounding 

213 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Manzoni,  Filodrammatici  or  the  Scala,  would 
fill  the  place  once  more,  this  time  with  dis 
cussions  over  a  new  play  or  opera,  far  more 
lively  than  would  be  elicited  in  England  or 
America  by  the  last  news  of  an  important  bat 
tle. 

Then  each  cafe  would  become  the  club  of  a  dif 
ferent  set,  the  smartest,  however,  where  art 
mingled  with  aristocracy,  being  the  ristorante 
Cova,  outside  the  Galleria.  And  now  memories 
of  months  spent  here  caught  hold  of  him  again 
with  their  special  charm,  and  he  decided  that 
this  charm  came  from  the  wide  diversity  of 
Italian  minds.  No  two  thought  alike  on  the 
same  questions,  while  each  opinion  had  its  own 
fascinating  touch  of  individual  truth.  What  ex 
cellent  literary,  dramatic,  and  musical  criticisms 
he  had  heard  here!  What  splendid  schemes  for 
dramas  and  novels  had  been  sketched  in  his 
presence  by  indefinitely  future  authors,  who  next 
morning  forgot  all  about  it,  or  postponed  work 
until  yet  another  day! 

He  especially  recalled  one  young  fellow,  a 
clerk  at  the  Municipio,  who,  while  grinding  me 
chanically  at  his  office  task  all  day,  concocted  at 
the  same  time  the  most  delightful  tales,  which 
he  would  tell  at  night  to  an  eager  group  of  ar 
tists  round  one  of  these  very  tables.  And  though 
these  little  masterpieces  might  have  brought  him 
fame  and  money,  he  was  quite  content  with  the 
214 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

delight  of  his  small  audience,  and  never  wrote 
one  down.  .  .  . 

Kent  sighed  restlessly,  and  wished  that  he 
would  turn  up  now.  Dione's  face  had  just 
floated  before  him,  and  he  wished  exceedingly 
not  to  think  of  Dione. 

A  voice  close  by  startled  him — a  big,  resonant 
voice  that  he  knew. 

"Come!  .  .  .  Lei  qua?"  it  said. 

Kent  turned,  and  jumped  to  his  feet.  It  was 
his  fencing-master  of  old  days,  Giordano  Vanzi. 

Their  gladness  was  mutual.  They  shook  hands 
boyishly  again  and  again,  and  Vanzi,  who  was 
an  enthusiast  in  "the  noblest  art  of  chivalry," 
as  he  termed  it,  and  regarded  it  as  a  mission,  in 
quired  eagerly  whether  Kent  had  kept  up  his 
fencing. 

"You  are  made  for  it,"  he  said,  just  as  he  used 
to  do.  "Tall  and  supple  as  you  are,  I  back  my 
self  to  bring  you  invincible  to  any  torneo.  We'll 
have  one  next  autumn.  You  must  come  to  the 
sala  to-morrow  and  get  limbered  up." 

Kent  accepted  with  glee.  For  over  a  year  now 
he  had  not  touched  a  foil  he  was  ashamed  to  say, 
however,  and  feared  that  he  would  be  rather 
rusty. 

"Elbow  grease  will  soon  wear  away  that  rust," 
said  Vanzi.  "When  once  the  foundations  are 
sound  they  stay  forever.  One  can't  forget  how 
to  fence  any  more  than  how  to  swim." 

215 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

They  talked  and  talked.  With  Vanzi  the  con 
versation  could  not  drift  away  from  fencing. 
His  dream  was  to  go  to  England  to  proselytize, 
and  he  had  always  hoped  that  Kent  would  help 
him  to  that  end. 

"But,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Kent,  when  Vanzi 
urged  this  on  him,  "you  wouldn't  be  at  all  happy 
in  England.  In  a 'country  where  boxing  is  the 
national  method  of  fighting,  and  where  duelling 
is  extinct,  people  will  never  devote  the  time  to 
fencing  that  they  do  here.  With  rare  excep 
tions  it  never  goes  beyond  a  very  amateurish 
performance  with  us.  Here  you  can  keep  your 
pupils  for  two  years,  taking  lessons  every  morn 
ing  and  practising  exercises  every  afternoon,  be 
fore  you  allow  them  to  start  in  bouts.  In  Eng 
land  they  begin  that  sort  of  thing  after  six 
months.  .  .  .  Even  women  can  fence  the  way 
that  we  fence  in  England,  and  many  do  .  .  ." 

"I've  nothing  against  women  fencing,"  said 
Vanzi.  "There  is  a  young  Signorina  of  the  no 
bility  here  whom  I  am  teaching,  and  she  is  getting 
on  capitally  .  .  .  but  capitally.  .  .  .  When  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  there  are  as  good  acrobats 
among  women  as  among  men." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Kent.  And  suddenly  there 
was  Dione  before  him  again,  in  fencing  costume 
this  time,  foil  in  hand.  He  almost  started  visibly 
at  the  suddenness  of  the  inward  sight  and  the 
thought  that  came  with  it,  for  here  was  one  way 

216 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

out  of  his  perplexity — a  way  that,  since  he  had 
to  keep  on  seeing  her,  would  allow  him  to  do  so 
with  less  danger  to  them  both. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  as  Vanzi  went  on  expound 
ing  his  theories,  "I  shall  give  her  lessons  in 
fencing  .  .  .  she  will  love  it,  and  during  the 
lessons  I  shall  just  stick  to  matter-of-fact  busi 
ness.  And  after  them  she  will  be  too  dead  tired 
to  want  to  talk  or  do  anything  but  rest  for  a 
while.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is  it.  ...  That  is  cer 
tainly  a  first-rate  solution.  .  .  ." 

That  he  was  right  in  supposing  a  good  lesson 
to  be  tiring  he  found  out  next  morning  when  he 
went  to  the  Sala  di  Scherma  for  a  bout  with 
Vanzi. 

He  had  not  thought  that  one  could  deteriorate 
so  in  a  year.  His  position  needed  continuous 
correction  which,  after  the  efficacious  method  of 
Vanzi,  came  down  in  sharp  tappings  of  the  mas 
ter's  foil  on  the  inside  of  his  knees,  never  suf 
ficiently  bent  outward,  and  on  his  chest,  never 
sufficiently  effaced  in  profile.  After  half  an  hour 
of  this  he  was  drenched  with  perspiration  and 
his  thighs  quivered. 

That  night  he  slept  better,  and  woke  next 
morning  quite  refreshed. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  exultantly,  "the  very 
thing!  .  .  .  I'll  just  take  back  a  pair  of  foils  and 
a  couple  of  masks,  and  teach  her  fencing.  ...  It 
will  solve  a  lot  of  puzzles." 

217 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

In  this  way  he  could  avoid  seeing  her  too  often 
or  too  intimately,  and  yet  not  wound  her,  nor 
rouse  Varoni's  questionings. 

"The  very  thing  .  .  .  the  very  thing  ..." 
he  repeated  to  himself.  ' '  When  we  chance  to  be 
alone,  a  fencing-lesson.  When  there  is  a  ques 
tion  of  sailing,  take  Gigino  along  too." 

Thus  Kent,  who  imagined  that  he  was  think 
ing  his  own  thoughts,  and  was  merely  deciding 
what  destiny  had  already  decided. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

WHEN  he  reached  Ceredo  again  he  found,  to 
his  dismay,  a  letter  from  Varoni  awaiting 
him,  in  which  his  friend  said  that  he  would  be 
detained  in  London  for  another  ten  days  or  so. 
This  seemed  to  Kent  a  very  unfair  thrust  on  the 
part  of  Fate.  Then  he  determined  that  he 
would  not  go  near  the  Rupins  until  sheer  civility 
forced  him  to,  and  settled  down  into  a  calmer 
frame  of  mind. 

It  was  the  fourth  day  after  his  arrival.  He 
was  seated  in  the  battered  old  steamer-chair 
which  usually  accompanied  him  on  his  travels, 
and  which  he  liked  to  use  when  writing,  and  had 
just  forced  himself  to  concentrate  all  his  mind 
on  the  opening  of  the  second  act  of  his  "Leo 
nardo."  He  felt  quieter  than  for  many  days  past. 
Some  of  the  old  creative  mood  had  returned  to 
him.  He  drew  a  long  breath  of  content,  and 
took  out  the  silver  pencil  with  its  indelible  lead 
point  that  he  used  instead  of  a  pen. 

He  had  but  just  begun  the  description  of  the 
scene  when  there  came  a  low  knock  at  his  door. 

"Avanti!"  he  called  with  considerable  impa- 
219 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

tience,  then  sprang  to  his  feet  as  the  slowly 
opening  door  revealed  Dione  upon  his  threshold. 

"Signorina!"  he  cried.  "You  here!  .  .  .Good 
God !  What  has  happened  ? ' ' 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  said  Dione.  "I 
only  came  because  I  felt  that  you  might  never 
come  to  me  again.  .  .  .  And  ...  I  ...  un 
derstood.  And  ...  I  ...  wanted  to  ...  ex 
plain  if  ...  I  could." 

She  was  deadly  pale.  Even  her  bright  lips 
looked  dim,  and  under  her  eyes  there  were  dark 
stains  as  from  sleeplessness. 

"You  .  .  .  you  ..."  stammered  Kent,  lit 
erally  dumfounded.  Then  he  caught  himself  up 
with  a  gasp. 

"But,  Signorina,"  he  urged,  going  over  and 
standing  beside  her,  "you  cannot  stay  here.  .  .  . 
Come,  I  will  go  back  with  you  immediately." 

"Wait,"  faltered  Dione,  paler  than  ever.  "I 
do  not  remember  ever  being  tired  before  .  .  . 
but  to-day  I  am  very  tired.  I  must  rest  just  a 
moment.  .  .  .  May  I  sit  here?" 

Kent  placed  a  chair  for  her  without  a  word. 
He  was  on  thorns.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
this  girl  lived  in  the  twentieth  century,  and  yet 
did  not  see  that  she  was  doing  an  unheard-of, 
unimaginable  thing  ? 

The  next  moment  she  lifted  her  clear,  puzzled 
eyes  to  his,  and  said: 

"Why  cannot  I  stay  a  few  moments?  ...  I 
220 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

know  that  it  is  not  conventional  to  come  to 
speak  to  you  in  your  own  rooms,  but  it  is  morn 
ing — it  is  very  early.  No  one  could  think  harm 
of  it." 

Kent  felt  really  distracted. 

"Signorina,"  he  said,  earnestly,  after  a  second's 
hesitation,  "let  me  assure  you  that  people  do 
not  wait  for  sufficient  causes  before  they  think 
harm  of  others.  Now  that  you  are  rested  you 
must  come  with  me  at  once.  Heaven  only  grant 
that  no  one  has  seen  you  mount  these  stairs." 

"Only  Laura,"  said  Dione,  sadly,  "and  she 
has  loved  me  since  I  was  a  little  baby,  and  could 
not  be  made  to  think  harm  of  me.  But  I  will 
go  at  once,  since  you  think  it  necessary." 

They  went  down-stairs  together,  and  out  by 
an  unfrequented  way  overhanging  the  lake, 
toward  Vareggio. 

The  girl's  intense  pallor  and  darkened  eyes 
gave  Kent's  heart  a  sickening  twist. 

' '  I  care  more  than  I  thought  ...  I  care  more 
than  I  thought,"  he  reflected,  wretchedly. 
"Poor  child!  She  has  been  suffering  savagely 
.  .  .  she  is  suffering  now  .  .  .  and  I  can't  take 
her  in  my  arms  and  comfort  her.  No,  God!  I 
can't.  ...  I  won't  do  that." 

He  was  almost  as  pale  as  she  when  he  turned 
from  the  road  and  made  her  sit  beside  him  on 
the  already  purpling  heather.  Below  them  the 
lake  sheened  milkily  under  the  tramontana.  The 

221 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

sky  was  full  of  those  long,  streaming  clouds  that 
are  called  "mares'  tails." 

"Now,"  said  Kent  in  a  gentle  voice,  as  though 
speaking  to  a  distressed  child,  and  aching  to  take 
the  slight  hand  that  trembled  among  the  heather 
and  press  it  close  to  his  breast — "now  tell  me, 
Signorina,  how  I  can  help  you  .  .  .  and  what  it 
was  that  brought  you  to  me  this  morning." 

To  his  infinite  dismay  Dione  suddenly  covered 
her  face  with  both  hands  and  bowed  down  her 
head  against  them. 

"Dione  .  .  .  my  poor  little  Dione,  what  is  it  ?" 
he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice.  He  clenched  his 
hand  in  order  not  to  lay  it  upon  that  bowed 
head.  "Tell  me  ...  tell  me  .  .  ."  he  urged. 
"Something  terrible  must  have  happened.  .  .  . 
Won't  you  tell  me,  Dione  ?" 

From  behind  her  screening  hands  she  spoke  in 
a  low  voice,  and  he  had  to  bend  close  to  hear  what 
it  was  that  she  said.  She  stammered,  caught 
her  breath  .  .  .  went  on  with  difficulty. 

"That  night  .  .  .  that  night  .  .  .  the  night 
wre  .  .  .  found  each  other  ...  on  the  .  .  . 
mountain  .  .  .  when  you  .  .  .  went  away  .  .  . 
it  all  ...  came  to  me  .  .  .  you  thought  me  a 
.  .  .  shameless  girl.  .  .  .  You  would  not  ..." 

But  Kent  had  both  her  wrists  in  a  fierce  grasp. 
"Don't  say  such  things  to  me!"  he  cried,  thickly. 
"I  forbid  you  .  .  .  I  forbid  you  to  say  such  things. 
You  little  know  ..."  He  broke  off  helpless. 

222 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

' '  Tell  her  all  the  truth  now.  Now  is  the  time, ' ' 
urged  a  voice  within  him.  "Tell  her  all  of  it 
.  .  .  don't  leave  out  one  jot  or  one  tittle.  Now, 
before  she  looks  at  you  again,  tell  her  the  truth, 
and  set  her  and  yourself  free  of  this  tangle." 

"No,  not  now,"  urged  another  voice,  still 
stronger.  "You  would  be  a  brute  to  tell  her 
now,  when  she  is  in  this  agony  of  shame.  What 
you  must  do  now  is  to  clear  her  in  her  own  eyes, 
to  make  her  know  beyond  a  doubt  that  you 
think  of  her  as  pure  and  good  and  maidenly. 
Later  .  .  .  yes,  later  you  must  tell  her.  That  is 
your  plain  duty  as  a  man.  But  not  now  .  .  . 
not  as  she  is  now." 

"Listen,  Dione,"  he  said,  in  a  quieter  voice; 
"first  of  all  I  want  to  swear  to  you  on  my 
mother's  honour  that  I  respect  you  as  I  respect 
her.  Do  you  believe  me  ?" 

The  girl  began  to  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 
The  little  sprays  of  heather  that  leaned  against 
her  shook  with  that  heartrending  tremour.  He 
had  no  further  doubt  as  to  whether  or  not  he 
loved  her.  His  whole  strength  was  taken  in 
keeping  himself  from  laying  so  much  as  a  finger 
upon  her  piteously  shaken  body.  And  to  this 
his  care-free  selfishness  had  reduced  her — Dione, 
the  untouched,  the  self-sufficing. 

"Dione,"  he  said  again,  his  voice  all  hoarse 
and  broken,  "won't  you  say  a  word  to  me?  .  .  . 
Won't  you  tell  me  that  you  believe  me?" 

223 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

She  nodded  her  head,  still  unable  to  speak,  and 
the  trembling  abated  somewhat. 

"Don't  ...  be  sad  .  .  ."  she  said,  on  catch 
ing  breaths,  "I  ...  do  ...  believe  you." 

"God  be  praised,"  said  Kent. 

He  felt  suddenly  sick,  as  after  a  heavy  fall. 
And  they  sat  there  together,  wordless  and 
stricken,  for  some  moments. 

"I  ...  thought  .  .  ."  whispered  Dione  again, 
"that  you  .  .  .  meant  to  ...  to  ...  show  me 
what  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  thought  ...  of  me  ...  by 
keeping  .  .  .  away  from  me." 

"But  now  you  know  .  .  .  you  know  forever, 
do  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Kent  again,  and  again  there 
fell  silence  between  them. 

Presently  Dione  said,  in  a  new,  exquisitely  shy 
voice : 

"I  ...  I  ...  thank  you  for  ...  not  .  .  . 
kissing  me." 

Kent  almost  burst  into  hysteric  laughter.  It 
was  well  that  she  was  not  looking  at  him,  for  his 
face  twisted  into  a  really  horrible  grimace.  He 
mastered  himself  by  a  great  effort,  and  said, 
quietly:  "Why,  Dione?" 

"I  ...  could  not  .  .  .  bear  it  ...  now," 
she  faltered. 

Then  Kent  took  his  lower  self  in  both  hands 
and  bent  it  down  under  him. 

224 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Listen,  Dione,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  so 
unnatural  that  she  dropped  her  hands  and 
looked  up  at  him.  But  he  did  not  look  at 
her.  He  was  livid,  and  his  face  a  new  face 
to  her. 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  heart,  and  sat  quite 
still,  just  gazing  at  him  with  parted  lips.  Pres 
ently,  as  he  did  not  continue,  she  said,  whispering : 

"I  listen." 

Kent's  lips  were  dry,  and  his  voice  sounded 
cracked  in  his  own  ears. 

"There  are  .  .  .  reasons,"  he  said,  "why  I 
.  .  .  cannot  .  .  .  say  all  that  I  would  like  to  say 
to  you  .  .  .  now,  Dione." 

She  crept  a  little  nearer  to  him  through  the 
heather. 

"Do  not  be  sad,"  she  said,  caressingly.  "If 
you  have  .  .  .  reasons,  I  know  that  they  are 
good  ones  ..." 

"Oh,  Dione!"  he  groaned,  and  in  his  turn 
dropped  down  his  face  into  his  hands. 

"I  .  .  ."  said  Dione,  with  both  hands  at  her 
breast  now,  "I  can  bear  my  own  sadness,  but 
your  sadness  I  cannot  bear." 

"And  I,"  said  Kent,  "am  a  coward  and  a 
brute  .  .  .  and  I  have  no  right  to  love  you  .  .  . 
but  I  do  love  you." 

"Oh,"  broke  forth  the  girl  on  a  sort  of  sob,  "I 
knew  it!  ...  I  knew  it!  ...  Evoe  Pan!" 

Kent  stared  at  her.  He  thought  for  a  dizzy  in- 
15  225 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

stant  that  she  had  really  gone  mad.  But  she 
turned  on  him  such  a  radiant  face,  as  she  knelt 
before  him  on  the  heather  with  both  arms  up- 
tossed,  that  he  could  only  marvel  at  her  in 
silence. 

"Since  that  is  true,"  she  said,  "nothing  else 
matters  .  .  .  nothing  else  in  all  the  world.  .  .  . 
Evoe,  Evoe,  Evoe  Pan!" 

"Dione,"  said  Kent,  taking  one  of  her  uplifted 
hands  for  the  first  time,  and  drawing  her  down 
beside  him,  "do  not  cry  so  loudly.  Some  passer 
by  might  hear  you.  What  is  it  ?"  he  added.  ' '  I 
do  not  understand  at  all." 

Then  close  to  him,  yet  not  touching  him,  she 
told  him  of  her  pilgrimage  by  night  to  Pan's 
Mountain,  and  of  the  libation  that  she  had 
poured  and  all  the  prayer  that  she  had  made. 

Kent  felt  breathless,  as  though  in  some  mad 
dream  he  were  being  made  the  sport  of  beautiful 
and  terrible  imaginings. 

"You  did  that,  Dione?"  he  said  at  last,  "and 
you  think — you  really  think  that  Pan  sent  me 
to  you?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  I  think  it,"  said  Dione.  "What 
do  you  think?" 

"I  think,"  said  Kent,  slowly,  "that  no  one  like 
you  has  lived  on  earth  these  two  thousand  years 
and  more." 

"But  you  will  not  be  sad  now?" 

"Ah,  you  have  forgotten  those  reasons  of 
226 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

which  I  spoke  to  you  —  those  reasons  that  keep 
us  apart,  Dione  .  .  .  that  must  keep  us  apart." 

"They  will  melt  .  .  .  vanish  .  .  .  like  a  va 
pour,"  she  said,  happily. 

"They  are  as  solid  as  the  Stone  of  Iron  there, 
now,  Dione." 

"They  will  pass,"  she  said  again.  "They  will 
open  before  us  like  the  air.  And  then  ...  do 
you  remember  the  song  of  'The  Fierce  Maiden'  ? 
And  then  you  will  say  to  me,  'Thou  art  mine.' 
And  to  you  I  will  say,  'I  am  thine.' ' 

"O  Dione,  Dione,  Dione!"  was  all  that  he 
could  answer  her. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

KENT  was  like  a  man  who,  handling  care 
lessly  a  thread  across  his  way,  finds  that  it  is 
a  live  wire  from  which  he  cannot  loosen  his  grasp. 
He  recalled  an  actual  sight  of  this  kind  which 
he  had  once  happened  upon  in  Vienna,  and  the 
simile  seemed  more  apt  and  just  than  ever.  In 
that  instance  a  poor  devil,  seeing  a  wire  sagging 
before  him,  had  taken  hold  of  it  to  put  it  aside, 
and  when  Kent  came  upon  the  scene  a  small 
crowd  was  laughing  at  the  grimaces  and  antics 
of  the  unfortunate  wretch,  whom  they  thought 
drunk.  All  the  while,  however,  the  man  was  not 
drunk  but  dead. 

"Yes,"  thought  Kent,  grimly,  "my  mental 
squirmings  and  contortions  must  seem  drunken 
indeed  to  the  gods  who  look  on  in  the  figurative 
Vienna,  and  I  know  myself  quite  well  as  dead 
to  all  sense  of  honor.  But  I  shall  rise  again  .  .  . 
yes,  I  shall  rise  again,  if  not  on  the  third  day, 
then  on  the  fourth,  or  fifth,  or  sixth  .  .  .  give 
me  time,  give  me  time.  A  woman  who  has  just 
given  birth  to  a  child  cannot  get  up  and  fight  at 
once.  And  love  has  been  torn  from  my  side  like 

228 


PAN'S    MOUNTAI  N 

a  child  from  a  woman.  .  .  .  There  is  no  health 
in  me  ...  I  am  sick  to  the  marrow  ...  I  can 
not  fight — even  the  desire  to  fight  is  dead  in  me 
just  now.  .  .  .  'Her  mate!'  She  prayed  to  Pan 
for  her  mate  to  be  sent  her — poor,  lovely,  fearless 
old-time  Greek,  born  by  mischance  into  this  flat, 
twentieth  century,  where  women  avoid  child- 
bearing,  and  divide  their  self-conscious  loves  into 
spiritual  and  physical  hemispheres.  'Her  mate' 
she  asked  for,  pouring  libation  to  Pan.  .  .  .  Has 
there  ever  been  such  a  poem  lived  as  that  in  this 
age  of  flying-machines  and  motor-cars?  .  .  . 
'And  that  their  sons  might  be  strong  and  wise.' 
.  .  .  Dione  .  .  .  daughter  of  earth  and  sky, 
mother  of  Venus.  .  .  .  You  are  rightly  named 
Dione !  Dione !  And  though  I  was  faithless,  and 
did  not  pour  libation  to  the  fierce  old  gods,  nor 
ask  that  you  should  be  sent  to  me  .  .  .  you  are 
my  mate  also.  And  shall  I  put  you  from  me  for 
a  dull  convention?  .  .  .  Shall  I  take  'my  mate, 
my  you,'  and  set  her  aside  at  the  bidding  of  that 
pawky  wench  custom  ?  Shall  I  give  my  ideal  a 
bill  of  divorce  ?  Shall  I  thrust  her  from  my  bed 
and  board  forever,  and  lay  me  down  by  the  tepid 
side  of  propriety  ?  God !  You  ask  too  much  of 
man.  You  made  him  flesh,  and  require  him  to 
be  spirit.  Oh,"  groaned  he,  halting  suddenly  in 
his  savage  circlings  about  his  room,  "what  is  the 
use  of  all  this  bombast  ?  .  .  .  She  has  taken  me 
for  her  mate  because  she  believes  me  to  be  a 

229 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

man.  And  like  a  man  I  must  act  to  her,  not  like 
a  brute  beast  .  .  .  not  'like  the  mule  which 
hath  no  understanding  and  taketh  the  bit  in  his 
jaws.'  .  .  .  But  give  me  time,  give  me  time  .  .  ." 

And  throwing  himself  down  upon  his  bed  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  arms,  and  lay  there,  gazing 
upon  Dione  against  the  spangled  darkness  of  his 
eyelids  as  though  she  had  been  actually  present. 
Complete  and  rounded  as  her  strong  young  body, 
he  saw  wTith  his  mind's  eye  her  nature  also. 
Lover  and  mother  in  one  ...  no  broken  arc, 
but  the  perfect  round,  here  on  earth.  Her  mate 
she  desired  and  his  children  she  desired  also. 
And  the  beautiful  flesh  of  her  was  afire  with 
imagination.  And  out  of  her  grave  eyes  looked 
mind  and  character,  as  well  as  love,  and  all  the 
dizzying  promises  of  woman  to  the  chosen  from 
among  men.  There  was  something  about  her  as 
spacious  and  tender  as  the  blue  lift  in  summer. 
And  though  he  felt  that  this  figurative  heaven 
could  lighten  and  thunder  also,  it  seemed  to  him 
only  the  more  desirable  for  its  possibility  of 
storm.  Again  she  was  like  the  dark  earth,  her 
mother,  with  something  of  fatefulness  and  mys 
tery  hidden  under  all  the  burgeoning  sweetness. 
That,  too,  he  loved. 

She  had  in  her  the  primeval  force  of  air,  of 
fire,  of  water ;  would  be  as  bright  and  dangerous 
to  mishandle  as  a  sword  of  flame. 

''Yes,  my  mate,  my  mate,  my  mate.  And 
230 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

shall  I  give  you  up?  No,  by  God!"  he  cried, 
springing  to  his  feet.  "Somehow,  sometime, 
somewhere  ...  I  shall  win  you  ...  I  shall 
take  you  ...  I  shall  have  and  hold  you 
forever!" 

When  he  next  saw  Dione,  which  was  on  the 
afternoon  following,  he  tried  to  make  clear  to  her 
as  best  he  could,  without  telling  her  what  he 
could  not  yet  bring  himself  to  tell  her,  why  he 
must  not  see  her  too  often. 

She  listened  seriously,  with  eyes  sometimes 
downcast,  sometimes  fastened  on  his. 

"Do  you  understand?"  he  asked  at  last,  when 
he  had  finished.  "Do  you  understand,  Dione 
.  .  .  my  love,  my  dearest  ?  Do  you  realize  that 
it  is  a  torture  for  me  to  sit  near  you  like  this, 
and  yet  not  to  touch  so  much  as  your  beautiful 
hand  ?  .  .  .  That  I  am  like  a  man  dying  of  thirst 
who  must  strike  the  full  cup  from  his  own  lips  ? 
I  am  brave  enough  to  say  'I  dare  not.'  .  .  .  Do 
you  understand  what  that  means,  Dione?  .  .  . 
Do  you?  Do  you?" 

"I  understand,"  said  she,  "that  you  have 
strong  reasons.  And  as  I  trust  you  wholly  I 
know  those  reasons  to  be  good  ones.  And  since 
we  love  each  other  what  is  a  little  waiting  ?  .  .  . 
It  is  hard,  yes.  But  one  has  to  pay  for  all  things. 
The  greater  the  love  the  bigger  the  price.  That 
is  all,  is  it  not  ?  We  can  help  each  other  during 
this  waiting  by  trusting  each  other." 

231 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Kent  felt  all  his  being  shake  to  its  roots.  He 
turned  away  so  that  she  could  not  see  his  face — 
and  the  girl  stood  quietly  beside  him  and  said 
nothing  for  some  moments.  Then  she  asked: 

"But  you  will  come  sometimes  and  give  me 
the  lessons  in  fencing,  will  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"And  we  can  swim  together  now  and  then?" 

"Yes,  Dione." 

"And  sometimes  I  may  sail  with  you?" 

"Yes  ...  we  will  take  Cecca." 

"It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Dione,  thoughtfully, 
"she  is  so  afraid.  And  I  need  not  sit  near  you. 
I  could  sit  on  deck,  near  the  mast,  with  Ma- 
sciett." 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  said  Kent,  and  hid  his  face 
upon  her  sleeve.  The  next  instant  he  had  her 
on  his  breast,  holding  her  as  against  a  world  in 
arms.  As  suddenly  he  let  her  go.  They  stood 
looking  at  each  other  whitely. 

"You  see  .  .  .  you  see  .  .  ."  he  stammered. 

"Yes  .  .  ."  said  Dione,  trembling  a  little. 
"I  see  .  .  .  I  will  be  good  .  .  .  I  will  not  .  .  ." 
she  paused,  and  pushed  back  her  clinging  hair, 
and  her  full  throat  quivered  like  a  child's  after 
sobbing.  "I  will  not  .  .  .  ask  to  sail  with  you 
.  .  .  any  more,"  she  ended  in  a  whisper. 

He  kept  faith  with  himself  and  her,  was  true 
to  his  word,  and  came  only  every  two  or  three 

232 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

days  to  give  her  a  lesson  in  fencing.  As  he  had 
foreseen,  she  made  a  remarkable  pupil,  and  she 
was  a  delight  to  look  at  in  her  short  kirtle  and 
blouse,  with  beautiful  slim  legs  uncovered  to  the 
knees,  and  pliant  feet  that  grasped  the  earth  like 
a  boy's.  Gravely  they  would  salute  each  other, 
sword  over  head,  in  one  of  the  most  perfect  poses 
known  to  the  human  body,  and  then  for  an  hour 
there  would  be  only  the  click  of  steel  between 
them,  and  the  necessary  words  of  question  and 
instruction.  But  her  heart  sang  all  the  while, 
"My  beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  his,"  and  all  the 
while  he  was  saying  to  himself,  in  the  words  of 
poor  Keats,  '"I  wish  I  was  either  in  your  arms 
...  or  that  a  thunderbolt  would  strike  me." 

This  lasted  for  ten  days.  Then  one  evening 
Dione  said  to  Cecca: 

"Cecca  mia,  I  have  something  to  tell  you 
which  I  would  tell  to  no  one  else  in  the  world." 

And  Cecca  said: 

"Tell  on,  Tesoro  mio.  You  know  well  that  I 
am  a  tomb  for  secrets." 

"Dear  tomb!"  said  Dione,  flinging  an  arm 
about  her  neck  and  pressing  a  fresh  cheek  to  hers, 
"this  is  a  secret  indeed." 

"I  listen,  my  joy,"  said  Cecca. 

"It  is  this,"  said  Dione,  pressing  close  to  her. 
"The  Signore  Kent  and  I  love  each  other,  and 
will  be  married  some  day." 

"Viva  Dio!  Bring  forth  men  children  only!" 
233 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

cried  Cecca,  in  the  words  of  Macbeth,  though  she 
said  them  in  dialect.  "Figli  maschi!  The 
Virgin  has  prospered  it!  A  fine  pair  you  will 
make,  treasure  of  my  heart.  And  you  who  are 
always  wishing  for  a  son.  Eh!  What  a  son 
there  will  be  of  that  mating!" 

"Yes,"  said  Dione,  "we  shall  have  splendid 
sons.  But  that  is  enough  of  that,  Cecca  mia. 
What  I  want  now  is  that  you  should  come  down 
to  the  osier ia  with  me  and  sit  on  the  shore  while 
I  go  for  a  short  swim  with  the  Signore.  We  will 
not  swim  far,  and  no  harm  can  be  said  if  you  are 
there.  And  mamma  is  in  Pallanza  for  the  even 
ing,  and  soon  the  moon  will  be  coming  up  over 
the  Sasso.  And  I  want  to  see  it  rise  with  him, 
from  the  water." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  as  many  rea 
sons  as  wishes,"  said  Cecca,  a  little  grumblingly. 
However,  as  you  two  are  going  to  marry,  there 
would  be  no  harm  in  it,  I  suppose.     When  does 
the  Signore  speak  to  la  mamma?" 

"I  do  not  wish  him  to  speak  yet,"  said  Dione. 
"I  wish  our  secret  to  be  just  our  own  for  some 
time  longer." 

"Not  for  too  long,  Gioia,"  said  her  nurse,  with 
a  certain  note  of  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

No,  not  for  too  long ;  for  only  as  long  as  I  wish." 

"Long  waitings  are  not  good  for  man  and 
maid,"  said  Cecca,  firmly.  "It  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  doing  a  foolishness." 

234 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"No,"  said  Dione,  as  firmly,  "I  am  not  doing 
a  foolishness.  Of  that  you  may  be  quite 
sure." 

And  with  this  Cecca  had  to  content  herself. 

She  sat  with  her  knitting  on  the  shore,  and 
watched  while  Kent  and  Dione  went  forward 
into  the  starlit  water.  "Madonna  guard  her! 
St.  Joseph  punish  him  if  he  be  not  good  to  her!" 
said  she,  in  her  heart. 

They  swam,  at  first,  through  soft,  gray  reaches, 
touched  here  and  there  by  flecks  from  the  clear 
stars;  then,  all  at  once,  that  quickening  glow 
began  to  spread  behind  Pan's  Mountain.  The 
moon  was  coming  slowly,  delicately  up,  like  a 
tired  queen  from  her  pleasure. 

Kent  looked  at  the  little,  drenched  head  be 
side  him,  with  its  thrice-wound  snood  of  black 
ribbon.  The  water  parted  in  a  gleaming  thread 
of  silver  about  her  throat,  on  its  silver  edge  her 
round  chin  rested  lightly.  Strongly,  rhythmic 
ally,  her  white  arms  cleaved  a  way,  stroke  for 
stroke  with  him. 

"Dione,"  he  said. 

"Well?" 

"How  long  could  you  swim  with  me  like  this  ?" 

"Until  we  sank  together." 

' '  Would  you  rather  sink  with  me  than  go  back 
without  me?" 

"You  know." 

235 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"If  we  sank  together  now  we  should  be  saved 
great  pain,  Dione." 

"I  will  bear  great  pain  for  you  willingly." 

They  swam  on  in  silence. 

The  moon's  rim  peered  all  at  once,  deep  as  coral. 

"See!"  said  Dione.  "She  is  like  a  flower — all 
rosy." 

"No,  she  is  blushing  .  .  .  love  makes  her 
rosy.  She  has  just  come  up  out  of  Endymion's 
cave." 

"But  presently  Pan  will  frighten  her.  Then 
she  will  grow  pale  again." 

"Dione  .  .  ." 

"Yes  .  .  ." 

"I  would  you  were  the  Lady  Diana  and  I  the 
shepherd  of  Latmos,  and  that  you  were  rosy  like 
the  moon." 

"Let  us  swim  to  Latmos." 

"Alas!  I  fear  that  your  geography  is  at  fault, 
Dione." 

"But  all  waters  touch  all  shores  in  dreams." 

"Then  let  us  swim  to  Latmos." 

"Come,  then,  Endymion." 

Now  the  moon  hung  clear  before  them.  Pan 
had  alarmed  her,  and  she  was  pale  indeed.  They 
swam  along  her  silver  trail  toward  the  shadow  of 
his  mountain. 

"See,"  said  Dione,  "it  leads  straight  to  the 
grotto  where  I  poured  him  libation  and  asked 
him  to  send  you  to  me." 

236 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Let  us  go  there  together  and  make  thank- 
offering." 

"Not  to-night;  it  is  much  too  far  to  swim,  but 
some  time,  yes,  we  will  go  there  together.  Let 
us  float  for  a  while  now." 

They  floated  side  by  side,  gazing  up  into  the 
vast  splendor  above  them. 

"This  it  is  to  be  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand," 
said  Kent  at  last. 

"There  is  no  world  any  more,"  said  Dione, 
dreamily;  "it  has  dropped  away  from  us  ... 
there  is  only  space  and  love  about  us." 

"Is  not  that  enough?" 

"It  is  enough,"  said  Dione. 

They  swam  again  for  a  while,  this  time  to  a  lit 
tle  inlet  about  twenty  yards  from  where  Cecca  sat 
with  her  knitting,  and  rested  on  the  dry  grasses. 
The  night  was  very  hot.  The  cicadas  piped 
faintly  as  though  in  sleep. 

"Dione,"  said  Kent,  suddenly,  "tell  me  this. 
.  .  .  Would  you  refuse  to  live  out  your  life  with 
a  man  whom  you  loved  if  he  could  not  marry 
you  after  the  formal  custom  of  the  world  ?  If 
there  were  some  deadly  bar  to  it?  And  if  he 
loved  you  with  all  his  soul  and  body,  and  meant 
to  be  truly  your  husband  as  long  as  he  lived  ? 
Would  you  send  him  from  you  ?  .  .  .  Would  you 
wreck  him  just  for  that  ?" 

"If  I  thought  only  of  myself  .  .  .  no,  I  would 
not  leave  him,"  answered  Dione,  "But  as  I 

237 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

said  once,  it  is  the  children  one  must  think  of 
.  .  .  one  must  not  wrong  one's  unborn  children. 
...  To  bring  them  into  the  world  without  a 
name  or  place  .  .  .  that  would  be  a  black 
wrong.  .  .  .  That  is  the  worst  wrong  that  I  can 
think  of." 

"But  to  be  born  of  a  great  love,  is  not  that 
more  than  any  name  ?  Then  are  men  and  women 
truly  poets,  'makers'  .  .  .  when  they  create  a 
child  out  of  a  mighty  love." 

"You  have  your  name,"  said  Dione,  "and  you 
have  made  it  famous.  .  .  .  You  cannot  judge." 

"Before  God,  I  would  rather  be  born  of  a  great 
love  than  inherit  a  great  name." 

' '  You  think  so, ' '  said  Dione, ' '  because  you  have 
the  great  name  already.  But  if  men  had  the 
right  to  call  you  'bastard'  .  .  .  then  all  would 
seem  different  to  you." 

"Do  you  think  a  woman  could  ever  hate  the 
man  whom  she  had  once  loved  with  all  her  self  ?" 

"If  he  wronged  her  child  I  think  she  might 
hate  him.  Do  you  not  remember  the  'Fierce 
Maiden '  ?  It  was  for  that  which  '  cried  beneath 
her  heart  without  a  voice,'  .  .  .  for  her  unborn 
child  that  he  had  wronged,  that  she  killed  her 
lover.  You  remember,  do  you  not?" 

"Could  you  kill  one  whom  you  had  loved,  for 
any  reason?" 

"I  might  wish  to  kill  him  ...  I  might  even 
go  mad  for  a  little  while  and  really  kill  him. 

238 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

How  do  I  know  ?  .  .  .  You  make  my  heart  very 
heavy  with  these  strange  questions." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  forgive  me.  .  .  .  My  heart  is 
very  heavy,  too." 

"Think  only  of  our  love  .  .  .  then  your 
heart  will  not  be  heavy  any  longer." 

"My  life.  .  .  .  My  heart's  blood." 

"Yes,  my  life  is  in  you,  and  yours  in  me.  The 
breath  that  we  breathe  with  is  one  breath.  And 
now  we  must  go  back." 

"Dream  of  me.  .  .  .  Come  into  my  dreams, 
Dione,"  said  Kent,  passionately,  as  they  parted 
for  the  night.  "Even  sleep  without  you  is  in 
tolerable." 

"If  I  can,  oh,  be  very  sure  that  I  will  come,  my 
one,  life's  love!"  she  answered,  with  both  hands 
against  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

VARONI  returned  the  next  day,  and  the  day 
after  asked  Dione  to  be  his  wife.  She  re 
fused  gently,  with  deep  feeling,  for  his  earnest 
and  immovable  love  was  revealed  to  her  clearly 
in  that  short  half  hour;  besides,  her  own  love 
had  already  made  her  much  softer  in  many  ways. 

"Signorina,"  said  he,  very  pale  but  very  quiet, 
"you  will  pardon  me,  I  know,  for  reminding  you 
that  you  are  still  very  young  ...  I  mention  it 
only  because  I  wish  to  say  that  in  time  you  may 
change — while  with  me  change  is  impossible. 
Should  that  day  ever  come,  Signorina,  I  shall  be 
there,  always  the  same  .  .  .  always  waiting." 

Then  he  went  to  see  Kent. 

"Alareec,"  he  said,  with  the  same  quietness, 
' '  it  has  happened  as  you  foresaw.  The  Signorina 
Rupin  has  refused  me — and  yet  .  .  ."he  broke 
off,  looking  at  the  other  keenly,  ' '  I  think  that  I 
may  say  without  egotism  that  I  could  have 
taught  her  to  love  me  had  she  only  trusted  her 
self  to  my  keeping." 

"Can  love  ever  be  'taught'  ?"  asked  Kent,  not 
returning  his  look,  but  gazing  down  at  the  silver 

240 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

pencil  with  which  he  had  been  working  when  his 
friend  entered. 

"Not  all  kinds  of  love,  perhaps,"  said  Varoni, 
"but  a  very  steadfast,  beautiful  affection  may  be 
won  by  the  man  who  sets  his  whole  life  to  the 
task  ...  as  I  would  have  set  mine.  Of  that  I 
am  sure.  And  perhaps  ...  in  the  end  .  .  . 
such  a  love  is  better  than  the  blaze  of  passion 
with  which  most  loves  begin."  He  seemed  to 
await  Kent's  reply. 

"My  dear  Gigino,"  answered  the  other, 
moodily,  "not  one  of  us  knows  the  first  damn 
thing  about  love,  after  all.  And  I  can't  help 
thinking  that  if  a  woman  does  not  love  a  man  to 
begin  with,  it  is  a  very  fortunate  thing  for  them 
both  if  she  will  not  marry  him." 

Varoni  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He  took 
one  of  Kent's  battered  little  note-books,  and  be 
gan  playing  with  it  as  Kent  was  playing  with  the 
pencil. 

All  at  once  he  said : 

"Forgive  me,  Alareec,  if  I  mention  something 
that  I  mentioned  once  before.  But  to  me  there 
is  a  certain  change  about  the  Signorina  .  .  . 
something  very  subtle,  very  evasive.  .  .  .  Al 
areec  ...  do  you  remember  my  once  asking  you 
to  be  very  careful  with  that  young  girl?" 

"I  do,"  said  Kent,  curtly. 

"Well,  then  ...  I  ask  it  again  .  .  .  most 
earnestly,  unless  ..."  He  fixed  so  shrewd  a 

16  241 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

gaze  on  him  this  time  that  Kent  feared  his  color 
would  change.  "Unless,"  continued  Varoni, 
"you  are  beginning  to  care  for  her  yourself?" 

Kent  jumped  up,  and  went  to  the  open  win 
dow. 

"You  are  simply  a  monomaniac,  Gigino,"  said 
he,  with  his  face  toward  the  lake. 

"Because  if  that  is  the  case,"  Varoni  went  on, 
with  his  gentle  imperturbability,  "I  have  noth 
ing  more  to  say  .  .  .  except  that  my  every  wish 
for  good  is  with  you  both.  But  .  .  ."he  broke 
off  again,  and  looked  at  his  friend  more  shrewdly 
than  ever. 

"Why  do  you  not  look  at  me,  Alareec?"  he 
asked,  leaving  his  sentence  unfinished. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Kent,  as  crossly  as  a 
child,  "you  break  in  on  a  man  when  he's  in  the 
middle  of  the  most  devilish  snarl  of  work,  and 
then  criticise  his  attitude  toward  you!  I  must 
say,  Gigino,  you  can  be  jolly  trying  when  you  put 
your  mind  to  it." 

"Do  you  intend  asking  her  to  marry  you?" 
was  Varoni 's  reply  to  this  outburst. 

"My  good  man,"  said  Kent,  as  pale  now  as  the 
other,  ' '  I  have  no  intention,  at  present,  of  asking 
any  woman  in  the  world  to  marry  me ;  that  you 
may  take  my  word  for." 

"You  seem  to  me  to  be  very  unnecessarily  ex 
cited,"  returned  Varoni,  with  the  fly-like  per 
sistency  which  was  so  exasperating  at  times. 

242 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  am  excited.  I  confess  to  the  crime  frankly. 
Perhaps  you'd  be  excited  occasionally,  also,  if 
you  were  trying  to  steer  the  Monna  Lisa  through 
a  five-act  drama  without  being  either  inconsistent 
or  monotonous — and  with  interruptions  from 
every  quarter,"  he  ended,  growling. 

Varoni  came  over  and  put  both  small,  well-cut 
hands  on  his  friend's  sulky  shoulders. 

"It's  no  use,  Alareec,"  said  he.  "I  know  you 
too  well.  You  are  disturbed  far  more  than  by 
any  paper-lady  like  your  Monna  Lisa.  .  .  .  Now 
hear  me.  If  you  love  this  young  girl  and  wish 
to  marry  her  .  .  .  on  some  future  day  .  .  .  next 
year  .  ,  .  when  you  will  ...  all  is  well  between 
us.  But  should  you,  by  any  carelessness  or 
selfishness  whatever,  .  .  .  make  her  suffer  ..." 
(the  small  hands  held  Kent  firmly)  .  .  .  "why 
then,  Alareec,  our  friendship  would  break  as  the 
friendships  of  other  good  friends  have  broken 
many  a  time  before  now.  .  .  .  That  is  all  ... 
I  wished  to  be  quite  frank." 

"You  have  certainly  been  frank,"  said  Kent, 
dryly.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  kept  him 
self  from  scowling. 

"And  now,"  said  Varoni,  "I  will  say  good-bye. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  irritated  you,  for,  as  you  know 
well,  I  have  a  great  affection  for  you.  But  I  also 
know  the  creative  temperament  ...  I  wanted 
to  warn  you,  and  I  wanted  all  to  be  straight  and 
clear  before  us.  Good-bye." 

243 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Good-bye,  Gigino,"  said  Kent,  softening,  and 
giving  the  small  hand  a  tight  grip .  "  You  're  really 
the  best  chap  in  the  world,  you  know,  after  all." 

Madame  Rupin  gave  Dione  a  rather  bad  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  after  the  final  departure  of  the 
Varonis,  but,  as  usual,  was  glad  to  escape  with 
a  few  bitter  whinings  from  her  daughter's  impas 
sive  dignity.  Cecca,  also,  came  to  the  rescue 
with  a  few  words  as  wingedly  crafty  as  those  of 
Odysseus. 

"Madonna  mia!"  exclaimed  she,  "are you  fret 
ting  because  better  remains  and  less  good  goes  ? 
.  .  .  Have  you  not  yourself  told  me  that  the 
Inglese  is  a  great  Scior  in  his  own  country,  and 
rich  to  boot?  .  .  .  And  do  you  not  know  that 
the  Inglesi  are  not  like  our  Sciori  in  these  matters, 
but  require  much  time  and  patience,  and  a  long 
tether?  And  as  for  your  grandsons,  will  they 
not  be  better  tall  and  strapping  like  the  Inglese, 
instead  of  little  and  girlish  like  the  other  ?  Now 
powder  your  pretty  nose  and  go  sit  on  the  ter 
race  in  the  good  air  which  always  blows  wisdom 
into  hot  heads,  and  I  will  beat  you  up  an  egg 
with  some  Marsala,  for  your  little  stomach  must 
be  empty  since  you  have  poured  forth  so  many 
words  and  groanings." 

In  the  mean  time  Kent  was  fighting,  not 
a  good,  perhaps,  but  certainly  a  bitter  fight. 

244 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

He  spent  harassed  nights,  and  dark,  confused 
days. 

"Tell  her  .  .  .  tell  her  .  .  ."  urged  one  voice. 
"Wait  ..."  urged  the  other.  "Why  precipi 
tate  matters  ?  .  .  .  Who  knows  what  an  hour  or 
a  day  may  bring  forth  ?  .  .  .  Perhaps  to-morrow 
.  .  .  to-night  even,  that  grim  barrier  may  open 
before  you  as  she  said,  'like  the  air.'  Such 
things  happen.  ...  In  all  lives  gates  of  brass 
have  been  broken  in  pieces,  and  iron  bars  cut 
asunder.  .  .  .  Does  not  all  come  to  him  who 
knows  how  to  wait?  .  .  ." 

And  he  stifled  the  first  voice  and  listened  to 
the  second.  But  his  work  lay  neglected  in  a 
drawer,  and  it  was  during  this  period  that  he 
wrote  those  feverish  yet  beautiful  lyrics  "To 
Dione,"  which  are  as  the  voice  of  one  singing 
to  a  strange  woman  songs  of  an  unforgotten 
love. 

One  morning,  however,  when  he  awoke,  it  was 
as  if  he  had  consulted  with  a  great  Master  in  the 
night.  All  seemed  clear  before  him.  His  will 
bent  to  his  grasp  like  a  ready  bow. 

"To-day,"  said  he,  with  mind  and  body  strung, 
"to-day  I  will  tell  her  .  .  .  and  it  will  lay  with 
her  as  to  what  happens  after." 

Still  in  this  frame  of  mind  he  went  to  Vareggio 
to  give  Dione  the  usual  fencing  lesson. 

She  met  him  with  a  face  as  radiant  as  though 
she  had  spent  her  night  in  the  field  of  stars. 

245 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Did  you  sec  me  last  night?"  she  asked,  com 
ing  close  and  smiling  up  at  him.  ' '  I  was  with  you 
in,  oh!  such  beautiful  places.  .  .  .  We  spent  a 
hundred  years  together,  and  it  seemed  like  a 
heartbeat.  ..." 

"Were  you  happy?"  said  Kent,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  my  most  dearest!" 

She  laughed  her  low,  stirring  laugh. 

"  Did  you  see  me  ?  .  .  .  Did  you  see  me  ?"  she 
asked  again. 

"I  felt  you  if  I  did  not  see  you,  Dione,"  said 
he.  "There  is  not  a  beat  of  my  blood  that  does 
not  thrill  with  you." 

"Ah,  .  .  .  but  I  hoped  you  had  seen  me!  .  .  . 
You  were  so  real  ...  I  touched  your  hair  .  .  . 
your  eyes.  .  .  .  You  took  me  to  you.  .  .  .  You 
said  .  .  .  'Dione  .  .  .  you  are  mine  at  last. 
.  .  .  Those  reasons  have  melted  like  a  mist.  .  .  .' 
And  all  was  happy  with  us.  ...  The  whole 
world  was  happy  with  our  happiness." 

Kent  stood  gazing  at  her  out  of  a  pale  face. 
Then  he  said,  in  a  voice  still  lower: 

"Let  us  take  our  lesson  first,  Dione.  .  .  . 
Afterward  I  ...  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"As  you  please,"  said  she,  radiantly.  "I  hope 
it  will  be  to  confess  that  you  saw  me,  too !" 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

KENT  handed  her  a  foil.  Yielding  to  her  in 
sistence,  he  was  going  to  give  her  her  first 
lesson  in  lunging.  He  had  not  thought  when  he 
began  teaching  her  that  she  could  make  such 
rapid  progress  as  to  begin  lunging  after  only 
eight  or  nine  lessons.  But  already  she  could 
step  backward  and  forward  tense  on  her  bent 
knees,  in  the  correct  position,  her  body  well  in 
profile,  her  left  arm  and  hand  curled  over  her 
shoulder,  her  right  arm  extended  forward  with 
elbow  slightly  bent. 

He  was  right  in  thinking  her  extraordinarily 
supple,  with  an  enduring  elasticity  of  limb  that 
he  ascribed  to  her  mountain  walks ;  but  he  did 
not  know  how  long  she  had  practised  stepping 
backward  and  forward  before  her  mirror,  which 
allowed  her  to  correct  any  deflection  from  the 
right  attitude. 

He  really  had  no  objection  to  make  against 
this  first  lesson  in  lunging,  which  she  suddenly 
urged  upon  him,  except  that  of  having  left  his 
padded  coat  in  his  room,  and  this  seemed  so 
trivial  a  reason  that  he  kept  it  to  himself.  After 

247 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

all,  he  could  parry  a  far  swifter  thrust  than  she 
could  yet  give. 

"Now,  then,  you  try,"  he  said,  after  he  had 
thrust  at  an  imaginary  adversary  by  way  of 
example. 

Dione  obeyed. 

"Brava!  Now  recover  yourself  .  .  .  back  on 
your  left  leg,  quick!" 

He  watched  her,  then  remarked : 

' '  Your  left  leg  must  act  as  a  spring  not  only  to 
send  you  forward  but  to  draw  you  back  again. 
.  .  .  Like  this.  .  .  .  Do  you  see?  Now  try 
again." 

This  time,  instead  of  standing  aside,  he  faced 
her,  foil  in  hand,  ready  to  parry,  and  pointing  to 
his  left  breast  with  his  free  hand. 

"Feel  the  point  of  your  foil  .  .  .  feel  it  as  if 
you  had  it  between  your  fingers.  You  must  feel 
it  as  a  painter  feels  the  end  of  his  brush.  Then 
don't  fall  forward,  spring  forward  from  your  left 
leg.  Ready?  .  .  .  Now!" 

He  did  not  have  to  parry,  for  the  point  of  her 
foil  went  altogether  wide  of  him. 

"How  vexing!"  she  said,  breathing  fast. 

"Not  at  all.  You  are  doing  very  well.  You 
were  much  better  on  your  legs  this  time." 

"Yes,  but  I  missed  you  by  a  yard!" 

' '  Never  mind.  I'd  rather  have  you  miss  me  in 
the  right  way  than  touch  me  in  the  wrong  way. 
You  would  only  have  done  it  by  accident  then." 

248 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Without  a  word  she  fell  into  position  again, 
tapped  the  floor  lightly  with  her  right  foot  to 
prove  to  herself  and  to  him  that  her  weight  was 
all  on  her  left  leg,  then  sprang. 

"Better!  Much  better!  .  .  .  Do  you  see?"  he 
encouraged  her,  after  she  had  retreated  into  posi 
tion,  and  stood  breathing  still  faster,  her  face 
slightly  flushed. 

She  looked  at  him  with  bright  and  darkened 
eyes. 

"No  .  .  .  it  isn't  better.  .  .  .  Don't  treat  me 
like  a  child  that  has  to  be  humoured.  I  am 
dreadfully  clumsy." 

"You  are  too  impatient.  I  swear  you  are  do 
ing  as  well  as  a  man  would." 

Again  she  did  not  answer.  It  was  not  in  her 
nature  to  make  excuses  for  herself,  but  she  would 
not  be  clumsy!  She  would  show  him  that  she 
did  not  need  his  indulgence. 

Once  more  she  got  into  position,  every  fibre 
tense  with  will,  her  eyes  straight  in  his  and  black 
with  rebellion  at  her  own  deficiency. 

In  him,  the  attention  of  the  fencing-master 
gave  way  for  a  moment  to  the  admiration  of  the 
man.  And  then  .  .  .  did  she  spring  too  far  to 
keep  her  balance  ?  or  did  she  slip  ?  or  was  he  off 
his  guard  ?  .  .  .  The  point  of  her  foil  caught  in 
his  loose  collar,  bent,  then  snapped  short,  the 
stump  tearing  through  collar  and  skin  over  his 
shoulder;  her  body  followed  it,  checked  only  by 

249 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

his  from  a  hard  fall.  And  then  she  saw  that 
there  was  blood  upon  his  throat  .  .  .  that  he 
was  very  pale. 

In  an  instant  her  foil  dropped,  clinking.  Both 
her  arms  were  fast  about  him,  her  head  strained 
back,  her  young  breast  pressed  to  his — all  herself 
pressed  against  him,  as  though  she  would  melt 
into  him  and  so  make  that  flowing  blood  her 
blood  also  that  was  shed. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  with  a  great  cry.  "Oh!  .  .  . 
I  have  hurt  you!  ...  I  cannot  bear  it!  ...  I 
have  hurt  you!  I  have  hurt  you!" 

And  she  clutched  him  as  the  drowning  clutch, 
and  held  up  her  face  to  his,  shuddering  through 
all  her  frame. 

Kent's  brain  reeled;  the  world  reeled  with  it. 
The  past,  the  future  were  gulfed  in  this  whirling 
now.  He  felt  only  the  woman  on  his  breast — 
the  wine  of  life  at  his  lips,  and,  stooping  his  head, 
he  drank  and  drank.  .  .  . 

When  he  could  speak  at  all,  he  said,  whis 
pering  : 

"  Now  you  are  mine  ?  .  .  .  Dione  .  .  .  are  you 
not  mine  now?" 

She  lay  in  his  arms  with  her  face  hidden,  but  he 
felt  the  assenting  movements  of  her  head  against 
his  breast. 

"You  are  mine.  .  .  .  You  are  my  wife.  .  .  . 
Say  it.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  all  yours.  ...  I  am  your  wife.  .  .  ." 
250 


"Could  priests  make  you  more  my  wife?  .  .  . 
Could  any  words  of  man  ?" 

"No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  ." 

"Dione  ..."  his  voice  was  only  a  warm  breath 
in  her  ear. 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"I  cannot  marry  you  before  men  now.  But 
someday.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  me,  Dione  ?" 

The  dark  head  made  that  little  assenting,  thrill 
ing  movement. 

' '  Some  day  I  will  marry  you  in  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  world.  ...  By  God,  I  will!  .  .  .  With 
my  own  hands  I  will  break  the  iron  bars.  ...  I 
can  ...  I  will.  ...  Do  you  hear  me?" 

Her  hand  moved  on  his  shoulder,  against  his 
throat,  answering  for  her,  assuring,  talking,  as 
only  the  hand  of  the  woman  who  loves  can  talk 
without  words. 

How  long  they  stayed  thus,  fast  in  each  other's 
arms,  neither  knew. 

At  last  Dione  said,  whisperingly : 

"Let  us  go  to-night  to  Pan's  Mountain  and 
swear  it  upon  his  altar." 

He  caught  her  still  closer. 

"Swear  what,  Dione?  .  .  .  Our  real  marriage 
vows?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

All  that  afternoon  the  mareng  swept  the  sky 
with  strange  whimsies,  as  of  a  pregnant  witch. 
Now  high,  now  low  it  sped,  whirling  up  great 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

vortices  of  cloud  from  behind  the  Sasso  di  Ferro, 
flinging  black  mist-wreaths  against  the  scudding 
white,  tearing  them  again  with  angry  teeth.  .  .  . 
Anon  trundling  huge  saffron  balls  of  cumuli 
above  Luino,  only  to  beat  them  flat  with  a  green 
broom  of  wind.  Scattering,  gathering,  scatter 
ing  again  —  now  east,  now  west,  now  north, 
now  south,  in  a  sick  frenzy  of  unfocussed 
force. 

Yes,  the  witch-wind  was  abroad  in  all  her 
might,  and  the  slight  gusts  of  rain  were  like  the 
spitting  of  her  teased  and  bewildered  cat,  tossed 
with  her  through  the  sky. 

Toward  eight  o'clock  the  fury  had  spent  herself, 
but  the  clouds  still  gathered,  sagged  lower  and 
lower,  gray  like  ashes,  like  fur,  like  metal,  like 
the  flesh  of  the  dying,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dead 
man.  .  .  . 

Kent  and  Dione  rowed  to  Pan's  Mountain  un 
der  a  low,  smothering  tent,  which  on  every  side 
closed  in  about  them. 

"Look,"  said  Dione,  speaking  softly.  "Pan  is 
veiling  himself.  He  is  putting  on  his  priestly 
robes.  .  .  ." 

And,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  Kent  saw,  in 
the  eerie  light  that  failed  with  every  instant,  a 
vast  cope  of  mist,  descending  almost  to  the 
mountain's  foot. 

He  rested  on  his  oars  for  a  moment  to  watch 
that  stately  robing.  Th  en  he  said : 

252 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"What  shall  we  do  when  we  get  there?  .  .  . 
What  shall  we  say  ?" 

Dione  crept  forward  in  the  boat,  and  leaned 
against  his  breast.  She  drew  down  his  head  and 
whispered  in  his  ear: 

"We  shall  pour  the  wine  into  my  little  silver 
cup.  .  .  .  Then  we  shall  each  drink  of  it.  .  .  . 
Then  each  will  pour  libation  to  him.  .  .  .  And 
you  will  say:  'Evoe,  Pan!  I  take  this  woman  to 
be  my  wife.'  .  .  .  And  I  will  say:  'Evoe,  Pan! 
I  take  this  man  to  be  my  husband.'  .  .  ." 

"Dione.  .  .  .  Dione.  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"Only  that.  .  .  .  'Dione.'  ...  It  is  all  said 
in  that  one  word.  ..." 

It  was  almost  pit  mirk  when  they  reached  the 
mountain.  Dione  took  the  oars  from  him,  and 
guided  the  boat  among  the  sunken  crags.  Then 
she  got  out  and  made  the  painter  fast,  as  when 
she  had  come  before.  Kent  came  and  stood 
beside  her.  They  grasped  each  other's  hands 
hard,  like  children  in  a  strange  darkness.  There 
was  no  sound  of  any  kind  save  that  hollow 
"glucking"  of  the  water  in  the  low  caverns  to 
right  and  left  of  them. 

"This  is  a  gruesome  place  ..."  said  Kent, 
finally.  .  .  .  "Let  us  get  through  and  be  gone 
from  it.  .  .  ." 

He  heard  the  wine  pouring  into  the  little  cup, 
but  could  not  see  its  dark  red  against  the  gloom. 

253 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Drink,  ..."  said  Dione's  soft  voice  at  his 
ear.  .  .  .  "I  have  drunk  of  it  already."  She 
held  the  rim  against  his  mouth,  and  he  drank, 
feeling  a  strange  shiver  as  the  wine  flowed  down 
his  throat. 

"Now,"  said  she,  "do  you  make  libation." 

"Evoe,  Pan!"  said  Kent,  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
and  again  that  shiver  passed  over  him  as  he  heard 
the  plash  of  the  wine  upon  the  bare  rock  at  his 
feet.  "I  take  this  woman  to  be  my  wife.  .  .  ." 

"Evoe,  Pan!"  the  girl  said,  clearly,  and  he 
heard  the  soft  plash  again.  "I  take  this  man 
to  be  my  husband.  ..." 

Then,  as  it  seemed,  they  stood  waiting,  and 
unconsciously  they  held  their  breaths. 

But  only  an  august  and  darkling  silence  an 
swered  them. 

As  they  turned  to  go,  however,  a  pelt  of  little 
stones  fell  rattling  through  the  shadows,  with  a 
noise  like  laughing.  They  fell  hard  and  straight. 

"Come!  ..."  cried  Kent,  in  a  strange  voice. 
"Come  quickly!  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hand!  .  .  . 
Quick!  Quick!  ..." 

He  half  dragged,  half  lifted  her  into  the  boat. 

"Were  you  hurt?  .  .  .  Did  any  strike  you?" 
he  asked,  bending  low  to  the  oars,  and  sending 
the  little  Am-pias-a-mi  like  a  shell  through  the 
livid  water. 

A  moon-streak  through  a  tear  in  the  smother 
ing  tent  showed  him  Dione's  face,  very  white. 

254 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Ah,  I  knew  it!"  he  cried,  an  instant  later, 
leaving  the  oars  and  flinging  himself  on  his 
knees  before  her.  "Dione!  .  .  .  You're  bleed- 
ing!  .  .  ." 

"One  struck  my  breast.  .  .  .  It  does  not  hurt 
now,"  said  Dione,  in  a  low  voice. 

That  tear  in  the  tent  of  clouds  was  widening. 
They  saw  each  other's  white  faces  in  the  wan 
gleam,  like  the  faces  of  two  drowned  people 
through  the  sickly  underlight  of  water. 

"It  does  not  hurt  now  .  .  .  truly,"  said 
Dione  again. 

She  showed  him  a  little  cut  on  the  white  lift 
of  her  breast  just  at  the  edge  of  her  gown,  from 
which  some  drops  of  blood  were  oozing. 

"Poor,  lovely  breast,"  said  Kent,  and,  bend 
ing,  stanched  it  with  his  lips. 

"See  .  .  ."  he  whispered,  lift  ing  his  head.  "I 
am  sealed  to  you.  .  .  .  See  your  blood  upon  my 
lips." 

Dione  trembled,  but  kept  her  eyes  in  his. 

When  they  reached  the  other  shore  again  and 
were  once  more  among  the  mountain  wildnesses, 
he  stopped  suddenly  and  turned  to  her. 

"Are  you  really  all  mine  ...  at  last?"  he 
said,  in  a  pent  and  shaken  voice. 

Dione  opened  wide  her  arms  with  a  noble 
gesture. 

"Take  me  ...  I  am  yours,  not  mine,"  she 
said. 

255 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

DURING  the  middle  of  September  Kent  was 
called   to   England   by  the   illness    of    his 
mother.     This  illness  ended  unexpectedly  in  her 
death,  and  he  did  not  return  to  Ceredo  until  the 
1 6th  of  January. 

Madame  Rupin  had  set  up  a  dreary  wailing 
when  he  left. 

"There,  .  .  .  stupid  one!  .  .  ."  she  had  cried 
to  Dione,  "there  goes  the  other  of  two  miraculous 
chances  that  the  Virgin  sent  you!  .  .  .  One 
would  think  that  you  were  waiting  for  the  little 
Crown  Prince  to  grow  up  that  you  might  be 
Queen  of  Italy.  .  .  .  The  saints  pity  me!  .  .  . 
I  have  brought  an  Amazon  into  the  world.  .  .  ." 

"Do  not  be  distressed,  mamma,"  the  girl  had 
replied,  with  unusual  softness.  "I  think  that, 
when  he  returns,  the  Signor  Kent  will  ask  you  to 
allow  him  to  marry  me." 

"When  he  returns!  .  .  .  When  he  returns!' 
God  give  me  patience!  Yes  .  .  .  when  he  re 
turns  all  will  be  well  indeed!" 

"Surely,"  here  Cecca  had  put  in,  "you  waste 
good  breath  on  poor  words,  Sciora  mia.  .  .  . 

256 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Does  a  man  write  every  day,  and  sometimes 
twice  a  day,  to  one  whom  he  does  not  wish  to 
see  again?  .  .  .  Like  the  swallows  to  the  south, 
he  will  be  heading  straight  for  our  lake  ere  the 
winter  sets  in." 

And  Dione,  listening,  had  smiled  and  said: 

"Yes,  surely  he  will  return  before  long.  In 
his  last  letter  he  tells  me  so.  ...  I  pray  you  not 
to  worry,  mamma." 

She  smiled  very  often  for  her  in  these  days; 
even  in  her  light,  half-conscious  sleep  she  smiled, 
and  though  this  smile  of  hers  was  all  unlike  the 
Monna  Lisa's,  it  was  even  more  subtle. 

The  day  on  which  Kent  came  back  was  cold 
and  fiercely  bright,  with  the  Maggiore  hammering 
the  lake  to  a  floor  of  rough  blue  steel.  He  caught 
his  breath  as  he  looked  about  him.  It  was  like 
seeing  a  beautiful  woman  after  a  lapse  of  twenty 
years  ...  so  changed  was  the  whole  scene,  and 
yet  so  unmistakably  the  same.  Pan's  Mountain 
was  now  the  real  Stone  of  Iron,  with  blue-black 
metallic  ribs  jutting  against  a  sky  of  piercing 
azure.  The  hazel  bushes  had  all  shed  their  leaves. 
Above  Ghiffa  the  chestnuts  and  birches  and  pop 
lars  were  all  naked.  Only  the  oaks  thrust  forth 
a  banner  of  withered  russet  here  and  there,  while 
the  dark  pines  and  cypresses  stared  from  among 
the  tangle  of  stripped  branches,  as  with  the 
haughty  gloom  of  beings  by  whom  the  seasons 
pass  unheeded. 

17  257 


He  went  straight  to  his  lodgings,  and  found 
there,  as  he  had  expected,  a  note  from  Dione 
awaiting  him. 

He  did  not  stop  to  take  off  his  heavy  overcoat, 
but  tore  the  letter  open,  and  read  it  standing. 

"Come,  thou  more  than  my  heart's  blood,"  it 
said.  "Come  to  me  in  the  little  pavilion  where 
my  foot  slipped  that  day.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  re 
member?  Ah,  thou  dost  well  remember!  .  .  . 
For  was  not  that  the  morning  of  the  first  day  for 
us?  The  day  on  which  we  first  began  to  live 
indeed.  The  day  on  which  we  married  each 
other  before  the  altar  of  Pan.  .  .  .  Come  quick ! 
.  .  .  quick!  for  I  have  beautiful  things  to  tell 
thee  which  may  not  wait.  ..." 

Kent  kissed  the  paper  like  a  boy  hungry  with 
first  love.  In  ten  minutes  he  was  at  the  door  of 
the  pavilion. 

Dione  opened  it  herself.  Behind  her  was  the 
glow  of  a  great  wood  fire  which  she  had  kindled 
on  the  hearth.  She  looked  very  tall  and  ex 
traordinarily  alive,  as  though  lit  by  some  inner 
flame  brighter  than  the  fire,  and,  somehow,  while 
she  was  more  herself  than  ever,  yet,  like  the  land 
scape,  she  had  changed.  It  was  not  winter, 
though,  that  had  touched  her — she  was  like  a 
garden  of  red  roses  in  the  heart  of  June. 

They  clung  together  as  though  Death,  relent 
ing,  had  just  given  them  back  to  each  other. 

"Dione!  .  .  .  Dione!  .  .  .  Dione!  .  .  ."  was  all 
258 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

that  Kent  could  say,  as  on  many  another  meet 
ing,  while  for  Dione,  her  quick  hands  spoke, 
flashing  about  him,  like  birds  about  their 
nest,  over  his  hair,  his  eyes,  his  throat,  his 
lips. 

"My  love  .  .  .  my  wife,  .  .  ."he  stammered. 
"My  wife  ....  my  own.  ..." 

Then  after  a  throbbing  half  hour  of  broken 
words  and  tremulous  caresses,  Dione  laid  her  arm 
about  his  neck,  and  pressed  down  her  face  above 
his  heart. 

"Alaric,"  said  she,  "you  have  not  asked  me 
to  tell  you  those  beautiful  things.  ..." 

"Oh,  my  most  beautiful,"  said  Kent,  dizzy 
with  the  fulness  of  love  and  life.  "Are  not  all 
the  things  that  you  tell  me  only  less  beautiful 
than  you  arc?" 

"But  this  is  more  beautiful  than  I  am.  ..." 

He  laughed  softly  against  her  fragrant  hair. 

"With  permission,"  said  he,  "I  must  beg 
leave  to  doubt  it." 

She  put  up  one  hand  and  covered  his  laughing 
lips. 

"You  must  not  laugh,"  she  said;  "this  is  to  be 
heard  in  silence  .  .  .  with  a  prayer." 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  be 
praying  in  my  heart  the  while  that  we  may  never 
die." 

Then  Dione,  holding  his  hand  against  her 
heart,  and  whispering,  said: 

259 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Alaric,  there  is  to  be  given  us  ...  a  little 
son." 

When,  after  some  seconds,  he  had  not  an 
swered  her,  she  turned  in  his  arms  and  looked  up 
into  his  face.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
died  in  pain. 

"Alaric!  .  .  .  Alaric!  ..."  screamed  Dione, 
and  she  shook  him  to  and  fro  in  her  terror.  Then 
she  screamed  again  as  he  tilted  stiffly  against 
her.  For  a  moment  he  had  lost  all  consciousness. 
.  .  .  She  wrapped  him  about  with  her  arms  as  a 
mother  wraps  a  hurt  child.  .  .  .  She  kissed  him 
upon  the  mouth  .  .  .  desperately,  with  jealous 
fierceness,  as  though  she  would  give  him  her  very 
life -breath  to  breathe  with.  .  .  .  She  did  all 
the  wild,  frantic,  hindering  things  that  ignorant 
people  do  to  one  in  a  swoon.  And  when  at  last 
he  drew  a  catching  breath  and  his  eyelids  flick 
ered,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life — for  she  had  not 
wept  when  her  father  died,  though  she  loved  him 
— she  burst  into  such  an  anguish  of  tears  as  Eve 
might  have  shed  when  she  stumbled  over  the 
body  of  Abel. 

Little  by  little  Kent  came  to  himself  again,  but 
that  frozen  look  as  of  a  mask  never  left  his  face. 
He  stared  before  him,  not  moving,  not  speak 
ing,  heedless  of  her  racking  sobs,  as  she  leaned 
against  him  with  her  arms  flung  out  across  his 
knees. 

At  last  he  managed  to  utter  "Dione!  .  .  ." 
260 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  gathering  him  all  against  her 
breast.  "I  thought  that  you  were  dead!  ...  I 
thought  that  you  were  dead!" 

"Oh,  that  I  could  die!"  groaned  the  man. 

Then  he  sat  up  and  put  her  from  him. 

"Don't  touch  me,  .  .  .  Dione,"  he  said,  in  a 
thick,  hoarse  voice,  "until  ..." 

He  broke  off,  and  hid  his  face  upon  his  clenched 
fists. 

"Tell  me!  ...  tell  me!  .  .  ."  urged  the  girl. 
"Something  will  snap  in  my  heart  if  I  am  not 
told  quickly!" 

"O  God!  .  .  ."  said  Kent.  "O  God,  God, 
God!  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me!  .  .  ."  urged  Dione,  fiercely.  "Tell 
me!  ...  tell  me!  .  .  ." 

She  tried  to  drag  up  his  face  from  his  hands,  so 
that  she  might  look  at  it.  But  he  resisted. 

"Tell  me!  ..."  she  said  again.  "If  you  are 
going  to  kill  me,  .  .  .  why,  kill  me  quickly." 

"Dione!  ..."  said  Kent,  with  the  effort  of  one 
dying  to  utter  a  few  vital  words.  "Dione,  .  .  . 
will  you  curse  me  ?  .  .  .  Will  you  ?  .  .  .  I  can't 
do  it!"  he  cried,  and  broke  off  again. 

The  girl,  rigid  and  trembling  now  from  head 
to  foot,  said : 

"You  are  being  very  cruel  to  me.  ..." 

"Then,"  said  Kent,  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
rage  in  his  spent  voice — "then  I  will  be  crueler 
still.  ...  I  cannot  marry  you  before  the  world 

261 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

even  now  .  .  .  after  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  you  have 
told  me,  because  .  .  ."he  set  his  teeth  so  hard 
together  that  she  heard  their  grating  .  .  .  "be 
cause  ...  I  ...  am  married  .  .  .  already  .  .  ." 

There  fell  utter  silence  between  them.  Like  a 
corpse  it  fell — heavily — and  lay  between  them. 
When  at  last,  unable  to  bear  the  strain  of  that 
dreadful  hush  any  longer,  Kent  lifted  his  head 
and  looked  at  her,  he  would  scarcely  have  known 
her.  Her  eyes  had  grown  light  in  color  like 
ashes.  Her  mouth  was  like  a  white  scar  on  her 
face.  She  looked  witless,  and  there  was  a  horror 
in  her  empty  stare  as  of  some  bewitched  creature 
whose  lover's  lips  had  turned  to  snakes  beneath 
her  kiss. 

Kent  seized  her  in  his  arms,  called  her  by 
name,  prayed  to  her  as  though  she  had  been  God. 
She  was  like  a  shape  of  stone.  Then  all  the  man 
in  him  went  to  water.  He  dropped  down  his 
head  upon  her  knees  and  his  wreeping  shook  her 
body. 

"God  forgive  me!  .  .  .  God  forgive  me!  ..." 
he  kept  saying,  when  he  could  speak. 

"God  will  not  forgive  you,"  said  a  curious, 
light  voice  above  his  head. 

He  looked  up  in  terror.  The  sight  of  her  face 
terrified  him  still  more.  She  was  gazing  straight 
down  at  him  now. 

"For  Christ's  sake,  Dione,  ...  do  not  look 
at  me  in  that  horrible  way!  ..." 

262 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  must  look  at  you  ...  I  never  saw  you 
before.  ..." 

"Dione!  .  .  .  Your  eyes  kill!  .  .  ." 

"No,  ...  or  you  would  be  dead.  .  .  ." 

"Is  it  to  me  .  .  .  me  .  .  .  that  you  speak, 
.  .  .  Dione?" 

"I  would  kill  you  if  I  could  ...  I  do  not 
know  how." 

He  felt  his  blood  chilling.  Then  he  cried  out 
to  her : 

' '  Dione !  .  .  .  Where  are  you  ?  .  .  .  Come  back ! 
....  Come  back!  .  .  ." 

' '  Diana  knew, ' '  said  she.  ' '  She  set  his  hounds 
on  Act  eon  at  the  first.  ..." 

"But  she  did  not  love  him!  .  .  .  Dione,  Dione! 
.  .  .  Are  you  going  mad  .  .  .  here  .  .  .  before 
my  eyes?  .  .  .  Wake!  .  .  .  Wake!  .  .  ." 

"And  I  do  not  love  you,  either." 

Kent  struggled  to  his  feet  and  groped  his  way 
to  the  window.  The  short  winter  day  was  draw 
ing  to  its  close.  A  dull  glow  as  of  red-hot  iron, 
cooling,  lit  the  sky  above  Baveno.  The  garden 
lay  in  dark  coils  of  vines  and  the  matted  white 
of  its  dead  grasses.  Behind  him,  in  the  dead- 
still  room,  a  log  broke  into  flame,  and  the  light 
from  it  rippled  over  the  pane  through  which  he 
was  gazing.  Then  he  went  back  to  her.  He 
took  her  rigid  hands  in  his  and  held  them  firmly. 

"Listen,  Dione,  .  .  ."  he  said,  in  a  more  natural 
voice,  "I  have  been  a  madman,  but  I  am  not  all 

263 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

the  scoundrel  you  think  me.  .  .  .  My  life  is  yours 
and  .  .  .  and  our  child's.  .  .  .  My  name  shall  be 
yours  the  instant  I  am  free.  .  .  .  No  shame  nor 
harm  shall  come  to  you.  ...  I  will  take  you  far, 
far  from  here.  .  .  .  Every  pulse  of  my  heart 
.  .  .  every  thought  of  my  brain  .  .  .  every 
atom  of  me,  soul  and  body,  shall  be  yours  al 
ways  ...  as  it  has  been  from  the  first  moment 
that  I  loved  you.  .  .  .  Are  you  listening?  .  .  . 
Do  you  understand  me?" 

Her  hard,  deathly  eyes  never  left  his  face. 
When  he  paused,  she  said: 

"And  my  son.  .  .  .  What  of  my  son?  .  .  ." 

"Will  he  not  be  my  son,  too?  ...  Is  he  not 
mixed  of  our  love?  .  .  .  Have  I  no  claim  in 
him?" 

"Will  you  call  him  'Bastard'  .  .  .  when  you 
want  him  to  come  to  you  to  be  loved  ?" 

"Dione!  .  .  ." 

"Will  you  say  'Love  me,  little  bastard,  .  .  . 
for  I  gave  thee  that  good  name'  ?" 

"God  in  heaven!  .  .  .  She  is  really  mad!  ..." 
He  stared  at  her,  stricken. 

"...  And  when  he  grows  to  be  a  man  .  .  . 
and  comes  to  you  with  the  woman  he  loves  for 
...  for  your  blessing  ..."  She  laughed.  ".  .  .  . 
Will  you  say  to  her:  'My  blessing  is  that  men 
will  call  you  the  Lady  Bastard.'  .  .  .  Will  you 
say  that  to  her?" 

That  numbness  which  comes  when  the  height 
264 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

of  pain  or  joy  is  reached  began  to  steal  over 
Kent. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  go  now,"  he  said, 
heavily.  "When  you  have  slept  .  .  .  to-mor 
row  ...  I  will  come  again,  and  ..." 

'"When  I  have  slept!'  .  .  ."  she  echoed  him, 
and  her  light  eyes  had  a  dreadful  sneer  in  them. 
"I  will  not  sleep,"  she  said,  "until  you  have  had 
your  punishment.  ..." 

Kent  shuddered. 

"I  will  do  whatever  you  wish,"  he  said,  with 
painful  humility.  "But  you  are  very  cruel  in 
your  turn,  Dione.  .  .  .  You  have  not  even  let 
me  tell  you  my  sordid  story.  ..." 

"I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  fireside  tales  to 
night,"  said  Dione. 

"I  was  so  young  .  .  .  only  a  lad,  .  .  ."  he 
faltered.  "It  was  when  I  was  at  college.  .  .  . 
She  .  .  ." 

"Silence!"  said  Dione.  "I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  any  one  in  all  the  world  but  you  and  me." 

"...  Dione!  .  .  .  Where  are  you?  .  .  .  Who 
is  this  in  your  place?"  he  called  out  again,  in 
desperate  anguish.  "You  speak  of  my  punish 
ment.  .  .  .  God  did  not  punish  Cain  as  you  are 
punishing  me.  ..." 

"Cain  only  murdered  his  brother.  .  .  .  You 
have  killed  your  first-born  before  he  has  drawn 
breath.  .  .  .  Better  be  Cain  even  than  .  .  . 
bastard." 

265 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Did  you  ever  love  me,  .  .  .  Dione?" 

"No  ...  I  never  loved  you,  ...  for  I  never 
saw  you  until  to-day." 

Kent  gave  the  piteous  sigh  of  a  man  who  is 
coming  to  himself  after  prolonged  torture. 

"Must  I  ...  go  ...  now?  .  .  ." 

"Go  .  .  .  but  I  will  see  you  again.  .  .  ." 

"When?  .  .  ."  he  faltered. 

"When  the  right  time  comes." 

"And  ...  I  must  go  ...  like  this?" 

"Go  as  you  can  and  may,"  she  said. 

"Then  .  .  .  good-night,  Dione." 

"There  is  no  night  that  is  good  .  .  .  but  one 
may  be  made  good." 

He  felt  his  way  out,  blindly.  In  the  door  he 
turned. 

She  made  no  sign.  He  passed  on  into  the  clear 
night.  Above  Pan's  Mountain  the  moon  just 
showed  her  rim.  It  was  coral-red,  as  though, 
stealing  up  from  Endymion's  cave,  she  blushed 
for  love. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

ALL  that  night  Dione  sat  at  her  window  and 
gazed  at  the  Stone  of  Iron.  Masciett  lay 
at  her  feet  and  kept  them  warm,  though  she 
did  not  know  it.  She  was  not  conscious  of  her 
body.  All  her  life  seemed  to  have  drawn  up 
ward  into  her  head.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the 
whole  world  was  beating  in  that  conscious  round, 
and  that  she  knew  things  and  yet  was  apart  from 
them.  .  .  .  She  felt  light  as  a  feather  ...  as  a 
feather  torn  from  the  breast  of  a  hawk  in  some 
mid-air  fray  .  .  .  floating  .  .  .  floating.  Though 
there  be  blood  upon  it,  the  feather  cannot  feel  it. 
...  So  she  bled,  and  knew  it,  but  did  not  feel  it. 
And  all  during  the  long  night  the  refrain  of  the 
old  folk-song  went  singing,  in  her  own  voice, 
through  her  brain: 

"  The  ashes  on  my  hearth  are  red,  but  not  with  fire." 

There  were  ashes,  too,  in  her  brain,  but  these 
were  red  with  fire.  .  .  .  She  touched  her  fore 
head  lightly  .  .  .then  looked  at  her  hand  in 
the  moonlight.  ...  It  should  have  been  scarred 
with  that  hot  fire  in  her  head. 

267 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Then  as  she  gazed  down  at  it,  thinking  this, 
she  said  to  herself: 

"That  is  a  foolish  thought.  .  .  .  Thus  people 
go  mad  ...  I  will  not  go  mad,  for  I  have  things 
that  I  must  do  with  reason  and  calmness.  .  .  . 
There  is  no  real  fire  in  my  head.  ..." 

She  touched  it  again  with  her  cold  hand. 

"Yet  how  it  burns!  ..."  she  said. 

Then  she  bent  her  eyes  again  on  the  Stone  of 
Iron. 

"I  have  seen  you  naked,  Pan,"  she  said  aloud. 

She  gazed  and  gazed,  then  she  said  again: 

"Those  of  old  who  saw  you  so  ...  died. 
But  I  shall  not  die  .  .  .  not  yet." 

The  old  folk-songs  that  her  father  had  taught 
her  when  a  child  kept  thronging  back  upon  her. 
One  came  now,  more  persistently  than  the  song 
of  the  "Fierce  Maiden" — alternated  with  it,  beat 
ing  itself  out  in  scraps  and  reiterations  against 
her  strained  mind : 

'Why  are  thy  long  black  tresses  always  dripping,  O  maiden? 
My  hair  is  wet  with  my  tears  and  the  water  that  drowned 
my  lover.' 

In  anger  they  parted.  The  heavens  also  were  wrathful. 
Dark  was  the  lake,  but  darker  their  hearts  within  them. 
The  lover  went  to  his  fishing:  the  maid  to  her  spinning. 
Drowned  in  the  storm  was  he.  Her  reason  went  with  him. 

Now,  folks  say,  she  wanders  by  night  to  meet  him. 
Under  the  waves,  hand  in  hand,  all  the  long  night-tide 

268 


They  fare  together  (thus  say  the  old  folks}. 

The  fishes  go  through  their  hair  and  against  their  pale 

faces. 

Cold  as  that  touch  are  the  kisses  they  give  each  other. 
(The  old  folks  tell  it.} 

'Why  are   thy   long  black    tresses    always   dripping,  O 

maiden  ? 
My  hair  is  wet  with  my  tears  and  the  water  that  drowned 

my  lover.' 

The  next  day  she  wrote  a  few  words  to  Kent 
and  sent  them  by  Cecca. 

"I  will  see  you  again,"  she  wrote,  "but  do  not 
come  until  I  send  for  you.  I  must  think  much. 
When  I  send  for  you  I  shall  be  very  quiet.  But 
do  not  come  until  I  send  for  you." 

She  was  always  so  silent  and  quietly  aloof  in 
her  own  home  that  her  mother  noticed  no  change 
in  her.  Her  extreme  pallor  seemed  to  Madame 
Rupin  the  same  that  had  always  annoyed  her. 
But  Cecca  saw — Cecca,  the  born  mother,  the  only 
mother  that  the  girl  had  ever  known.  It  was  re 
vealed  to  the  old  nurse  with  every  sharp,  side 
glance  which  she  took  that  there  was  something 
vitally  wrong  with  her  treasure.  She  dare  not 
ask  any  questions.  She  knew  Dione  too  well. 
She  loved  her  too  idolatrously  to  risk  the  grave, 
haughty  look  that  she  knew  would  fall  upon  her 
in  that  case.  Heavy  -  hearted  and  fearful  she 
went  about  her  work,  and  many  were  the  incan 
tations  against  evil  that  she  said,  and  many  the 

269 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

potent  herbs  that  she  slipped  into  the  girl's  food. 
But  Dione  did  not  eat.  That  seemed  to  Cecca 
the  most  terrible  sign  of  all. 

As  for  Kent,  he  passed  those  days  in  spaces  of 
which  men  never  speak  do  they  return  to  the 
upper  light.  Even  to  recall  them  for  an  instant 
is  to  tempt  God.  '"If  I  go  down  into  hell  Thou 
art  there  also,'"  he  thought,  in  agony.  "But 
this  is  the  cellar  of  hell  on  which  I  lie  broken. 
.  .  .  God  does  not  descend  so  low.  ..." 

On  the  fourth  day  after  his  arrival  Cecca  came 
with  another  note  from  Dione.  She  wrote: 

"Come  to-night  at  midnight.  I  will  be  wait 
ing  in  the  pavilion.  Dress  warmly.  I  cannot 
light  a  fire,  and  it  will  be  very  cold.  But  we  can 
see  each  other  by  the  moonlight." 

Kent  shuddered.  He  had  not  been  able  to  re 
call  Dione's  face  since  he  left  her,  except  with 
that  terrible  look  upon  it  which  made  her  seem 
to  him  a  strange  woman. 

"I  will  come,"  was  all  that  he  wrote  back. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day  Varoni 
came  to  Pallanza  for  a  short  visit.  He  went  first 
to  the  Rupins,  intending  to  see  Kent  as  he  re 
turned.  Like  Cecca,  he  looked  at  Dione  with 
that  search-light  of  love  which  pierces  all  masks, 
and  knew  that  she  was  very  ill.  He  stayed 
with  her  only  a  short  while.  Then  he  found 
Cecca. 

"I  am  alarmed  about  your  young  Signorina," 
270 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

said  he.     "I  think  that  she  is  seriously  ill.     Has 
a  doctor  been  consulted?" 

"Oh,  Madonna  mial  .  .  .  Madonna  miaf" 
cried  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her  hands. 
"What  is  a  poor,  helpless  old  creature  like  me  to 
do,  Signore  ?  .  .  .  The  child  says  that  she  is  not 
ill  and  goes  into  a  frozen  rage  at  the  mere  men 
tion.  The  mamma  says  that  she  is  sulking.  But 
if  you,  too,  see  it,  Signore  .  .  .  Madonna  have 
pity!" 

" I  do ,  indeed ,  see  it , "  said  Varoni .  "But  what , 
then,  do  you  think  this  illness  to  be,  Cecca?" 

Suddenly,  to  his  great  distress,  the  old  nurse 
flung  her  apron  over  her  head  and  burst  into  a 
passion  of  weeping — that  harsh,  racked  sobbing 
of  the  aged  which  is  like  the  sight  of  a  piteous 
deformity.  As  suddenly  as  she  had  broken 
down,  however,  she  recovered  herself,  begged 
humbly  to  be  pardoned. 

"The  Signore  must  indeed  excuse  me.  .  .  .It 
is  not  only  because  my  Signorina  is  ill  that  I  for 
got  myself  .  .  .  but  I  have  had  bad  news  from 
my  son  in  America  this  morning.  My  poor  son 
.  .  .  he,  too,  is  very  ill." 

With  the  clairvoyance  of  love,  Varoni  in 
stantly  knew  that  she  was  lying.  Why,  he  could 
not  think.  Then,  all  at  once,  he  seized  her  arm. 
Even  his  lips  were  white. 

"Cecca  .  .  ."  he  said,  hoarsely,  and  said  no 
more. 

271 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Cecca  began  moving  feverishly  about  the 
kitchen. 

"Doubtless,"  said  she,  in  a  false  note,  "the 
Signore  and  I  ...  a  poor  old  cretina  of  a  woman 
.  .  .  yes,  doubtless  we  exaggerate.  ...  A  little 
tonic  is  doubtless  all  that  she  needs.  The  Sig 
nore  must  not  take  things  too  seriously.  .  .  . 
The  Signore  must  not  regard  the  nonsense  of  an 
old  fool  like  me.  The  Signore  ..." 

But  Varoni  had  left  the  room. 

His  quick  brain  of  the  Latin  had  jumped  to 
conclusions  which  even  Cecca  had  not  as  yet 
dared  to  formulate  precisely.  He  went  and 
stood  alone  behind  the  shelter  of  the  old  box- 
trees  in  the  garden,  and  rage  and  horror  and 
anguish  tore  him  as  the  evil  spirits  of  old  tore 
him  who  dwelt  among  the  tombs.  He  remained 
there  half  an  hour.  Then  he  turned  with  a  gest 
ure  full  of  force  and  decision,  and  went  back  to 
the  house. 

"Ask  your  Signorina  if  she  will  see  me  again 
for  a  few  moments,"  he  said,  quietly,  to  Cecca. 
"I  had  forgotten  something  that  I  wish  very 
much  to  say  to  her." 

Dione  came  down  at  once  to  the  little  salotto 
to  see  him.  Her  eyes  were  still  that  light  color  of 
ashes,  but  her  mouth  was  now  like  a  fresh  wound 
in  her  white  face,  so  unnaturally  vivid  was  it. 

Varoni  placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  remained 
standing  in  front  of  her. 

272 


"If  you  please,"  said  Dione,  gently,  "do  not 
keep  me  long.  To-day  I  am  rather  tired." 

"I  will  not  keep  you  long,  Signorina,"  said  he. 
"What  I  have  to  say  will  take  only  a  little  time. 
First,  I  must  ask  your  indulgence,  however,  and 
your  permission  to  open  a  subject  which  I  had 
not  meant  to  mention  so  soon  again." 

"You  may  speak  as  you  wish,  Signore,"  said 
Dione. 

"Then,  Signorina,  what  I  have  to  say  is  this. 
There  come  times  to  all  of  us,  men  and  women, 
Signorina,  when  a  true  friend  .  .  ."he  choked 
suddenly  over  these  words,  and  his  face  became 
livid;  then  he  recovered  himself,  and  went  on 
with  his  usual  quiet  precision:  "...  when  a  true 
friend,  Signorina,  is  the  best  gift  that  God  can 
send.  This  true  friend  I  am  to  you.  Do  you 
believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  am  your  true 
friend?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dione,  looking  strangely  at  him. 

"Then,  Signorina,  you  will  not  be  offended  at 
what  I  am  about  to  say  to  you.  ...  It  is  this. 
Love  between  men  and  women  is  a  very  beauti 
ful  and  wonderful  thing,  and  it  is  well  to  marry 
for  love.  .  .  .  But  there  come  times  .  .  .  there 
come  occasions  when  a  husband  who  is  a  true 
friend  can  be  more  to  a  woman  than  father  or 
mother  or  any  other  friend,  no  matter  how  de 
voted.  .  .  .  There  come  times — Signorina,  I  am 
asking  you  to  let  me  be  to  you  that  husband  who 
18  273 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

is  the  true  friend.  ...  I  am  not  asking  for  love 
.  .  .  only  that  you  should  trust  me  enough  to 
become  my  wife." 

Then  Dione  knew  that  he  knew,  and  yet  that 
he  was  asking  her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  before  him, 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"Signore,"  said  she,  with  a  solemn  quaintness, 
"it  seems  that  I  have  entertained  an  angel  un 
awares.  You  are  a  good  and  a  great  man.  But 
I  shall  never  marry.  ...  I  thank  you.  ...  I 
hope  that  you  may  find  happiness." 

Varoni  lifted  her  loose  sleeve,  kissed  it,  and 
went  away  without  another  word. 

When  he  opened  Kent's  door  without  knock 
ing  he  found  him  seated  beside  the  table  with  his 
head  buried  in  his  arms.  Kent  started  to  his 
feet  with  an  exclamation  of  anger,  and  the  two 
men  stood  looking  at  each  other. 

"I  have  come  from  the  Rupins'  ..."  said 
Varoni,  slowly. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  for  Kent  to  look 
ghastlier,  but  his  eyes  quivered  as  before  a 
threatened  blow,  though  he  did  not  lower  them. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"Will  you  swear  to  me,"  went  on  Varoni,  still 
more  slowly,  "on  your  honour  ...  on  your 
mother's  honour,  that  you  have  done  no  wrong 
to  that  young  girl?" 

274 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Kent  set  his  jaw.  There  was  a  scarcely  per 
ceptible  pause.  "I  will  swear  it,"  he  said, 
thickly. 

"Then  you  are  a  coward  and  swear  to  a  lie!" 
said  Varoni. 

Kent  sprang  toward  him. 

"Wait!  .  .  ."  said  Varoni.  " You  are  a  spirit 
ual  coward,  but  not  a  physical  coward.  .  .  . 
Either  you  marry  the  Signorina  Rupin  imme 
diately,  or  you  fight  with  me." 

Kent  stood  breathing  sharply  through  his  nos 
trils  like  a  man  who  is  taking  ether.  Then  he 
said: 

"You  rush  in,  man  .  .  .  you  rush  in  .  .  ." 

"Will  you  marry  her?" 

"You  fool!"  cried  Kent,  his  face  dreadfully  dis 
torted.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  want  to  marry 
her?  ...  Oh,  you  fool!  .  .  .  But  I  cannot.  .  .  . 
I  am  married  already." 

They  stood  breathing  hard,  like  two  runners 
who  have  just  raced  with  death.  After  a  mo 
ment  Varoni  said : 

"Then  you  will  fight  with  me,  and  I  shall  kill 
you." 

"As  you  like,"  said  Kent,  and  he  laughed. 

Varoni  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

THE  midnight  was  bitter  cold.  From  the 
black  purple  of  the  sky  the  stars  shot  down 
stalactites  of  frozen  light.  A  thick  fell  of  snow 
wrapped  the  Sasso  di  Ferro.  Underfoot  there 
was  a  glare  of  ice. 

Kent  knocked  softly  at  the  door  of  the  pavil 
ion.  As  before,  Dione  opened  it  herself.  She 
stood  at  the  end  of  an  oblong  of  chill  moonlight 
cast  by  the  opposite  window.  A  long,  dark 
cloak  wrapped  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"Are  you  very  cold?"  she  asked,  when  he  had 
entered. 

And  he  answered: 

"Yes,  Dione.  ...  I  am  cold  in  body  and 
soul." 

"I  am  not  cold,"  said  she,  but  the  hand  that  he 
ventured  to  take  was  like  ice.  It  lay  passive  in 
his.  She  herself  seemed  all  passive.  They  stood 
together  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  Kent 
chafed  the  icy  hand. 

After  a  while  he  said: 

"What  have  you  to  tell  me,  Dione?" 

"Not  very  much,"  she  answered.  Her  voice 
276 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

was  passive  also.  "Perhaps,"  she  added,  a 
second  later,  "you  will  laugh  at  me?" 

"ODione!  .  .  ." 

"You  will  please  to  excuse  me.  You  see,  I  do 
not  know  any  longer  the  things  at  which  you 
will  laugh  and  the  things  at  which  you  will  not 
laugh." 

"Dione!  .  .  ."he  groaned  again. 

"I  hope,  however,  that  you  will  not  laugh  at 
this,"  she  continued,  with  the  same  passivity, 
"because  I  have  set  my  heart  on  it." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  look  she  gave  him 
in  the  moonlight  had  a  sort  of  shiftiness  in  it, 
utterly  unlike  any  look  that  he  had  ever  seen  in 
her  before. 

"I  could  not  laugh  at  anything  that  you  might 
say  to  me,  Dione,"  he  said,  brokenly. 

"You  cannot  tell  beforehand." 

"Yes  .  .  .  yes,  I  can  tell!"  he  cried,  with  an 
almost  angry  passion.  "Say  that  I  am  a  scoun 
drel,  .  .  .  but  I  am  a  scoundrel  who  loves  you. 
You  cannot  doubt  that  I  love  you!  .  .  .  You 
cannot  doubt  that,  Dione!" 

"Why,  I  doubt  God,"  said  she,  and  smiled. 

Kent  stood  wordless. 

"Will  you  tell  me  now?"  he  asked,  presently, 
in  a  dead  voice. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.     "Sit  here." 

He  sat  facing  her  on  the  little  rustic  bench 
where  he  used  to  rest  in  the  pauses  of  their 

277 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

fencing  lessons.  The  moonlight  struck  along  the 
foils  which  still  hung  crossed  on  the  opposite 
wall. 

She  kept  her  face  out  of  the  direct  rays,  but  the 
light  was  so  brilliant  and  permeating  that  he 
could  see  her  distinctly.  He  thought  again  that 
she  looked  at  him  craftily  ...  all  unlike  the 
Dione  that  he  had  once  known — or  had  thought 
that  he  knew  so  well.  And  it  occurred  to  him  for 
the  first  time  that  she  might  be  really  ill. 

"Are  you  well  wrapped  up  ?  ...  Is  it  not  too 
cold  for  you  here  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"No.  ...  It  could  not  be  too  cold  for  me," 
answered  she,  and  she  put  up  one  hand  to  her 
forehead. 

"Are  you  well?  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  quite  well?" 
persisted  Kent,  his  heart  racked. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Quite  well  enough," 
she  said,  with  a  sort  of  impatience,  then  caught 
herself  quickly  .  .  .  smiled  in  that  stiff  way 
which  was  so  painful  to  him,  and  which  made  her 
unsharing  eyes  stare  hardly.  "Please  to  lis 
ten  .  .  ."  she  said,  speaking  slowly.  "Please 
not  to  interrupt  me." 

"No  ...  I  will  not  interrupt  you,  Dione." 

"Very  well,  then."  (How  the  customary 
little  phrase  which  she  had  so  often  used  to  him 
in  other  days  cut  to  his  soul's  marrow!) 

He  drew  a  long,  catching  breath,  but  she  went 
on,  not  heeding  him. 

278 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said  again.  "This  it 
is.  I  have  been  thinking  very  much  .  .  .  very 
hard.  ..."  She  knotted  her  black  brows  and 
looked  past  him.  "Very  hard,  indeed.  ...  I 
have  remembered  all  that  you  said  when  you 
were  here  the  other  day.  ...  I  have  said  it  over 
and  over  to  myself  until  I  know  it  like  .  .  .  like 
a  poem.  Yes  .  .  .  like  a  poem.  ..." 

Kent  shivered. 

"And  this  is  what  I  say  to  you  in  return." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  continued,  in 
the  voice  of  one  saying  something  by  rote : 

"If  you  will  come  with  me  to  Pan's  Mountain 
to-night  and  swear  to  marry  me  when  you  are 
free  ...  I  will  .  .  .  accept  it." 

He  felt  that  she  purposely  did  not  say  ' '  believe 
it." 

"You  know  that  I  will  do  it,  Dione." 

"I  could  not  know  what  you  would  do." 

He  kept  a  miserable  silence. 

"You  will  go,  then?"  she  asked,  after  a  mo 
ment. 

"Yes,  Dione.     I  have  said  so  already." 

"Now?" 

"Now." 

"Come,  then,"  she  said,  and  stood  up. 

"Have  you  the  wine  ?"  he  asked,  looking  about 
him. 

"No,  .  .  .  we  do  not  need  wine.  We  will  not 
make  libation.  You  have  only  to  stand  where 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

I  show  you  and  swear  there  what  you  said 
to  me." 

"Shall  we  go,  then?" 

"Yes,  ...  let  us  go." 

They  went  together  down  the  mountain-side, 
often  slipping  on  the  ice-sheeted  stones.  She 
let  him  hold  her  up  without  remonstrance,  but 
never  reached  to  him  for  support.  It  seemed  to 
Kent  a  long,  long  way  to  the  shore.  Once  he 
stopped  and  cried  out  to  her,  in  an  anguish  of 
appeal : 

"Dione!  .  .  .  Dione!  .  .  .  come  to  me  once 
in  the  old  way!  .  .  .  Kiss  me  once  .  .  .  once 
only,  for,  indeed,  I  think  my  heart  is  broken 
within  me!" 

She  stopped  also,  and  stood  looking  at  him 
curiously. 

"I  know,  ..."  she  said,  when  he  had  finished. 
"One  feels  the  two  edges  grating  together,  does 
not  one  ?  .  .  .  I  always  thought  that  hearts  were 
soft  before  .  .  .  did  not  you?" 

He  gazed  at  her  in  alarm. 

"Oh,  you  are  ill!"  he  said. 

She  looked  scared  for  a  moment,  then  a  sort  of 
sly,  wheedling  look  crept  over  her  face.  She 
sidled  up  to  him. 

"You  may  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

Kent  sickened.  The  night  went  black  before 
him  for  a  moment,  then  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 
As  the  supple  figure  melted  against  his  he  bent 

280 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

in  a  sort  of  wounded  fury  of  love  and  pressed 
down  his  lips  on  hers.  But  it  was  like  kissing 
ashes.  Her  parched  mouth  was  like  a  cinder 
burned  out.  His  blood  returned  on  itself  in  thick 
waves.  He  staggered,  and  for  an  instant  she 
held  him  up  with  a  strong  grasp. 

"Let  us  go  on,"  he  said  at  last,  hoarsely. 

When  they  reached  the  shore  Dione  went  her 
self  to  fetch  her  boat  from  the  buoy. 

"I  wish  to  get  it,  ...  and  I  wish  to  row  there 
...  to  the  mountain.  It  will  keep  me  from 
being  cold." 

And  again  there  was  that  crafty  expression  in 
her  eyes.  They  rowed  as  they  had  walked — in 
silence.  Kent  did  not  attempt  to  take  the  oars 
from  her,  because  he  thought,  in  truth,  that  the 
exercise  was  better  for  her  during  the  long  cross 
ing  in  such  cold. 

They  touched  the  liquid,  black  shadow,  en 
tered  it.  Before  long  they  were  among  the 
gnarls  of  ice-sheathed  rock  at  the  Sasso's  base. 

She  looked  up  along  the  mountain  as  she  rowed, 
and  now  Kent  recalled  how  once  he  had  com 
pared  her  in  his  thought  to  a  white  hawk,  so  keen 
and  shrewd  was  her  gaze.  All  her  face  seemed 
pinched  with  it.  She  rowed  slowly  beside  the 
grim  base  .  .  .  paused  .  .  .  rowed  on  ...  paused 
again. 

"You  have  passed  the  place  where  we  stopped 
before,"  he  said,  gently. 

281 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"I  know  ...  I  know  ..."  she  said,  and  her 
voice  sounded  a  little  breathless. 

"Won't  you  let  me  take  the  oars  now  for  a 
little?  ...  It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  tired." 

"No.  .  .  .  No.  ...  I  am  not  tired.  .  .  .  Where 
is  it?  Where  is  it?  ...  Ah!  ..." 

She  trailed  one  oar  in  the  water,  bringing  the 
boat  about.  Its  bow  went  with  a  crunching 
sound  among  the  icy  pebbles. 

"But,  Dione,  .  .  ."  said  Kent,  anxiously,  "this 
is  such  a  steep  place.  .  .  .  We  shall  have  to 
climb  to  that  ledge  there.  ...  It  seems  to  me 
rather  dangerous.  ..." 

"No!  .  .  .  No!  .  .  ."  insisted  she,  still  with 
that  breathless  note  in  her  voice.  "It  is  just  the 
place!  .  .  .  See,  ...  I  am  out!  .  .  .  Now  do 
you  come  too!" 

He  got  out  beside  her.  She  had  made  the 
painter  fast.  She  lifted  herself  and  looked  all 
about  her,  and  then  up. 

"That  is  the  place!  ..."  she  said,  and 
pointed. 

His  eyes  followed  her  directing  hand.  A  sort 
of  rough,  natural  stairway  led  to  a  ledge  of  rock 
just  above  them.  This  ledge  was  about  three 
feet  in  width,  and  jutted  from  the  sheer  cliff. 
Below  were  the  humped  backs  of  sunken  rocks 
and  the  unplumbed  depths. 

"But,  Dione,  ...  I  assure  you  .  .  ,  it  is  dan 
gerous,"  he  said  again. 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"No,  ..."  she  said,  feverishly,  and  a  sort  of 
angry  gleam  came  into  her  uplifted  eyes.  "No. 
...  It  is  just  the  place.  ...  It  is  just  the  place. 
...  Go  first.  ...  I  will  follow  you." 

"Very  well,"  said  Kent,  fearing  to  excite  her, 
for  he  no\v  realized  that  she  was  very  ill  indeed. 

He  mounted  the  little  stairway,  and  went  out 
upon  the  ledge. 

"Be  very  careful  how  you  follow  me!"  he 
called  back  to  her.  "It  is  so  narrow  here  that 
I  am  afraid  to  turn  to  help  you.  ..." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  He  heard  that  she 
was  panting  as  she  clambered  up,  and  he  longed 
to  help  her,  but  the  foothold  was  too  precarious. 
He  even  took  a  cautious  step  or  two  backward 
that  she  might  not  have  room  to  advance  far 
along  that  perilous  shelf.  And  he  looked  up  at 
the  solemn  night  with  its  hosts  of  armored  stars 
wheeling  in  gigantic  silence  to  their  duty,  and 
felt  that  he  had  missed  his  way,  and  become  less 
than  star,  less  than  man  ...  a  wandering  atom 
...  a  pinch  of  poisonous  dust.  .  .  .  These  bit 
ter  thoughts  surged  through  him,  then  suddenly 
— thought  was  done  for  him.  A  strong  force 
pressed  violently  against  him  from  the  back. 
.  .  .  He  stumbled  .  .  .  recovered  a  little  .  .  . 
fell  forward  through  the  bleak  air.  .  .  .  His  head 
struck  against  one  of  the  half-submerged  rocks. 
He  sank  like  a  plummet,  without  a  cry  .  .  . 
without  a  struggle. 

283 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Dione  stood,  bent  far  forward,  gazing  down. 
Her  face  was  empty  of  all  expression.  She  stood 
thus  for  several  seconds,  but  there  was  no  stir  or 
sound  of  any  sort  save  the  low  "glucking"  of  the 
dark  water  in  the  caverns  just  below  her. 

Presently  she  lifted  her  head,  and,  setting  both 
hands  against  her  breast,  drew  a  long,  painful 
breath. 

"It  is  over  ..."  she  said. 

She  went  down  the  little  stairway,  untied  the 
boat,  stepped  into  it.  She  stood  there  for  an 
other  moment,  and  looked  up  at  the  huge  mass, 
all  shagged  with  snow,  that  rose  above  her. 

"Pan,  .  .  ."  she  said,  "...  I  have  given  him 
back  to  you.  ..." 

Then  she  took  up  the  oars  and  rowed  steadily 
and  swiftly  back  to  the  other  shore.  When  she 
rose  to  lift  out  the  cushions  something  fell  tink 
ling  at  her  feet.  She  stooped  and  raised  it.  It 
was  the  little  silver  pencil  that  she  knew  so  well. 
She  looked  at  it  curiously  for  a  moment,  then 
tossed  it  out  into  the  lake.  It  made  a  white 
streak  in  the  moonlight,  then  vanished. 

Cecca  was  not  asleep,  though  it  was  nearly  four 
o'clock,  for  Masciett  kept  whining  and  scratching 
at  her  door.  She  got  up  at  last,  lighted  a  candle, 
and  let  him  in.  No  sooner  was  he  across  the 
threshold  than  he  ran  questing  about  the  room, 
sniffing  at  bed  and  chairs  and  tables.  ...  He 

284 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

was  hunting  his  mistress,  who  had  locked  him 
into  the  house,  but  that  Cecca  could  not  know. 

"Santa  Maria!  .  .  .  The  beast  acts  as  though 
he  were  bewitched,"  thought  she,  and  "made 
horns"  against  him,  and  crossed  herself  many 
times. 

"Sta  quiet!  .  .  .  Sta  quiti!"  (Be  still!  .  .  . 
Be  still!)  she  called  to  him.  But  he  circled  and 
circled,  and  at  last  sat  on  his  haunches  before  her 
and  lifted  up  his  muzzle  with  his  wild,  wolf 
tremolo. 

"Madonna  save  and  protect  us  all!"  exclaimed 
Cecca,  really  frightened. 

Suddenly  the  dog  stiffened  .  .  .  cocked  his 
head,  then  flung  himself  furiously  against  the 
closed  door,  whining  and  slavering  with  ex 
citement. 

Cecca  stood  frozen.  Then  she  heard  Dione's 
voice  saying: 

"Let  me  in!  ...  I  am  cold!  .  .  .  Let  me  in! 
...  I  am  cold!" 

Cecca  rushed  to  the  door.  She  flung  it  open, 
and  saw  Dione  standing  on  the  threshold  fully 
dressed,  a  long  cloak  shrouding  her,  and  her  face 
like  a  dead  face. 

"O  Signer!  O  Madonna!  ..."  cried  her 
nurse.  "  Why  are  you  like  that  ?  .  .  .  What  has 
happened?" 

Dione  stood,  and  stared  at  her. 

Cecca  seized  her  wrist,  and  shook  her. 
285 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

"Speak!  .  .  .  speak!  .  .  ."  said  she.  "Have 
you  been  out  into  the  night  alone  ?  .  .  .  Was  the 
Signore  with  you?  .  .  .  Where  is  the  Signore?" 

That  cunning,  crafty  look  stole  into  the  girl's 
face. 

"Sh!"  said  she,  with  her  finger  at  her  lips. 
"That  is  Pan's  secret.  .  .  ." 

' '  Dio  mio  !  Dio  mio  I  It  is  my  belief  that  you 
are  in  a  raving  fever.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  Madonna!  for 
you  are  colder  than  a  corpse.  ...  Sit  here.  .  .  . 
Do  as  I  bid  you.  .  .  .  Now  drink  this  wine.  ..." 

The  girl  took  a  few  swallows  with  great  diffi 
culty,  obedient  from  the  long  habit  of  childhood. 
Then  she  sat  quite  silent  in  a  corner  of  the  chim 
ney,  huddled  among  the  warm  coverings  that 
Cecca  had  heaped  about  her,  staring  into  the  just- 
kindled  blaze  of  pine  cones. 

"O  blessed  Virgin!  ..."  groaned  the  other, 
distracted.  "O  Mary  Mother,  grant  that  she  be 
not  going  mad!  .  .  .  Never  have  I  seen  till  now 
such  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  any  creature.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  Dione  bent  that  look  on  her. 

"Now,  Cecca,"  she  said,  fretfully,  "please 
bring  me  my  baby !  .  .  .  Please  give  him  to  me, 
Cecca!  ...  I  want  to  nurse  him.  .  .  .  You  al 
ways  keep  him  so  long.  .  .  .  You  are  jealous  be 
cause  all  your  sons  are  grown.  .  .  .  Please  give 
me  my  baby,  Cecca  dear!  ...  I  am  so  cold. 
...  It  will  warm  me  to  hold  him.  .  .  .  And  I 
am  lonely.  .  .  .  Please,  dear  Cecca!  .  .  ." 

286 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

Cecca  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  extended, 
empty  arms,  at  the  empty,  hungry  eyes ;  then  she 
threw  herself  down  upon  the  stone  floor  and  tore 
at  her  gray  hair. 

Dione  watched  her  listlessly. 

"Please  get  up  and  give  me  my  baby,  Cec 
ca!  .  .  ."  she  kept  saying.  "I  am  so  lonely! .  .  ." 

Far  back  in  the  high  foothills  of  the  Italian 
Alps,  above  Lago  Maggiore,  an  old  and  a  young 
woman  live  together  in  a  little  hut  of  stone  such 
as  are  built  on  those  uplands.  The  only  man  of 
their  household  is  a  big  dog  whom  the  peasants 
thereabout  call  "The  White  Wolf."  They  have 
a  bit  of  grass-land  and  keep  two  cows.  The  old 
woman  tends  the  house  and  dairy,  and  goes  down 
to  the  valley  to  sell  the  milk  and  butter.  The 
young  woman  helps  in  these  matters  sometimes, 
but  chiefly  she  watches  the  cows  and  tosses  the 
new-mown  hay — for  she  loves  best  to  be  out-of- 
doors.  Besides,  she  is  vacant  and  entirely  list 
less  unless  her  boy  is  either  in  her  arms  or  lying 
near  her  where  she  can  watch  him  when  she  is 
working.  The  dog  is  not  jealous  of  the  child, 
though  he  follows  its  mother  like  a  white  shadow, 
but  will  sit  guarding  it  for  hours  as  it  lies  on  a 
haymow  while  its  mother  tosses  up  the  fragrant 
grass.  Does  any  venture  too  near  he  lifts  a 
threatening  lip  and  shows  his  fangs,  growling 
slightly. 

287 


PAN'S    MOUNTAIN 

The  young  woman  is  very  pale,  with  a  crown  of 
black  flame-like  hair.  When  she  smiles  and 
nurses  her  baby  she  is  beautiful.  The  peasants 
call  her  "La  Bella  Matta"  (The  Beautiful  Mad- 
girl),  and  cross  themselves  as  she  goes  by  with 
The  White  Wolf  at  her  side,  singing  or  talking  to 
her  boy.  He  crows  and  leaps  against  her  breast 
in  answer,  and  she  lets  him  pull  out  handfuls  of 
her  splendid  hair  without  wincing. 

Sometimes  she  stands  quite  still  and  looks 
down  at  him  wistfully,  saying :  "I  have  forgotten 
thy  name,  my  treasure.  But  God  has  it  written 
down  somewhere.  Cecca  told  me  about  it." 

Oftenest  she  sings  to  him,  though.  Strange 
lullabys  they  are.  The  peasants,  listening,  cross 
themselves  again.  And  the  one  she  sings  most 
frequently  has  a  wild,  piteous  refrain: 

"Why  are  thy  long   black  tresses  always  dripping,  O 

maiden  ? 

My  hair  is  wet  with  my  tears   and  the  water  that 
drowned  my  lover." 


A    000  549  951     2 


